


these stars here on earth

by oisugasuga



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Eventual Smut, Feels, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possible Character Death, Science Fiction, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Superpowers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 113,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oisugasuga/pseuds/oisugasuga
Summary: Oikawa's always been in love with the stars above him, but now he may have found one that is just as beautiful here on Earth.[Alternatively titled: Oikawa comes home to find a stranger (Suga) in his apartment and chaos ensues from there]
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Iwaizumi Hajime, Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Oikawa Tooru/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 19
Kudos: 62





	1. silver and gold

**Author's Note:**

> **As some of you may know, I took down tshoe a while back because i intended to rewrite it with OCs and attempt publication and I didn't want the original floating around the Internet.
> 
> However, due to several changes in my life, I actually ended up not pursuing serious publication with tshoe. Today, I'm actually moving closer to my dream with a personal psychological thriller novel -- from which I've been fortunate enough to receive full manuscript requests of over the past couple of months and am really excited about.
> 
> That being said, and due to being asked by several people about tshoe since it was taken down, I've decided to re-post the original fic here.
> 
> I can't promise that I'll continue the story but I just wanted to show my appreciation for everyone who loved tshoe and especially to those who respected my decision to take it down when I did.
> 
> So welcome back everyone who read and loved tshoe when i first posted it in 2016 and new readers enjoy ♥︎

“Finally,” Oikawa mutters, turning his key into the lock of his apartment door and shoving it open.

After almost two years he’s gotten used to having to jiggle the knob in just the right way to get the door to un-jam.

It’d been a long day full of final exams and crumpled term papers with coffee stains being shoved back into Oikawa’s face by exhausted and 100% done professors.

Oikawa is 1000% done.

But he feels victorious. He’s definitely managed to get good enough grades to more than pass this fall semester.

So it’s with intense relief and a pounding head that Oikawa collapses onto his couch, not even bothering to turn on the lights in his apartment, his backpack hitting the ground with a thud.

Oikawa had been expecting to sleep here, limbs sprawled haphazardly over the piece of furniture.

He had planned to wake up in the morning with a bad taste in his mouth and sleep-heavy eyes, stumble to the bathroom to relieve himself before scavenging together whatever food he had in the kitchen for breakfast, which would probably just turn out to be ramen.

What Oikawa hadn’t been expecting was to fall on top of something curled up on his couch.

Oikawa hadn’t expected that something to then let loose a yelp and scare the shit out of him.

“Fuck!” Oikawa shouts, launching himself off of the human-shaped figure and face-planting into the floor.

In seconds, Oikawa is on his feet, ignoring the throbbing of his nose, and scrambling backwards, his back hitting the wall.

The other person has scrabbled over the back of the couch, landing on the other side with a groan.

Reality hits Oikawa like a punch to the face.

There’s a fucking stranger in his apartment.

A sudden gust of wind through the room tells Oikawa how the intruder got in before he can even wonder.

He forgot to close his windows.

Again.

Who leaves their windows open when they live in an apartment on the second floor in a huge city like New York? Idiots do.

And also Oikawa. Idiots and Oikawa.

Maybe the aliens had finally found him. That would make sense, you know, since he was sure he was the most active person on the planet trying to find out if they existed. Maybe he had finally gotten close to revealing them and they were here to abduct him and then wipe his memory and then…

_“Oikawa,”_ he chides himself in his head. _“Stop thinking so much. There is a person in your apartment. With you. In the dark.”_

Another part of Oikawa’s mind is re-living all of the piss-your-pants horror movies he’s ever watched, which is not helpful at all since Oikawa now imagines he can see the glint of a knife in the dark.

“Shit,” Oikawa mutters, completely frozen in his place, eyes straining to see who it is.

_“Think Oikawa, dammit,”_ his conscious berates him.

“Ummm, hello?” Oikawa squeaks out.

His conscious facepalms. 

Getting up very, very slowly, Oikawa finally stands up, squinting through the dimness, trying to see over his couch, but it’s useless.

“Ummm,” he cautiously calls out, unsure of what else to do, “are you by any chance not originally from Earth?”

Oikawa can feel the scathing heat of Iwaizumi’s disdainful sneer from half-way across the city as soon as the words leave his mouth.

But the embarrassment that covers the tips of his ears in pink quickly dissipates as soon as the intruder seems to shift, a shape standing up from behind the couch, and… is he holding his hands out?

Oikawa edges towards where he knows the light switch is on the wall, heart hammering.

He needs to call the police, he needs to run, he needs to do something before he dies.

“Okay,” he says out loud, and no, his voice is not trembling. It’s strong and manly and very much in control. “I’m going to turn on the lights and we’re going to figure this out. Face-to-face, or face-to-tentacles, or whatever.”

He realizes that he sounds like an idiot, but he can’t help it. His nerves are making all of his thoughts staticky and annoying.

The person is silent, but Oikawa notes with some relief that the figure isn’t moving, which means that the intruder isn’t getting any closer.

Fumbling fingers finally find the smooth plastic of the light switches, and Oikawa flips the one for the living room on, blinking rapidly in the sudden wash of light.

He just catches a flash of silver hair before the person ducks back behind the couch.

“Oi,” Oikawa says, trying to sound unafraid and confident. After all, the person hasn’t produced a gun or any kind of weapon so far. Maybe it’s some teen who’s been dared by his friends. “You’ve got to show me your face sometime. Why are you here?”

If he’s going to be murdered, he’s going to know who the hell it is first.

His eyes drop to his backpack which is resting on the floor next to the couch and he knows his phone is in there, right inside the first pocket on the outside.

But he doesn’t want to get any closer to the person. What if they do have a weapon? What if they’re just waiting for him to come near so they can attack?

Every muscle in his body feels like it’s going to snap from how much Oikawa is struggling not to bolt down the hallway to his right and sprint to his room and slam and lock the door so he can escape through the window.

But he’s stuck, afraid to make a move and have the person also jump into action.

“Are you here to steal something? Because I literally don’t own anything of value and I swear, I’m going to call the police right-”

“Wait, stop.”

Oikawa sucks in a breath when the person finally speaks from behind the couch.

It’s a male voice, and he sounds young, but Oikawa still can’t see him.

That is, until the person decides to show himself.

Sterling hair appears once again, followed by a pair of hazel-brown eyes.

Slowly, bit by bit, the person emerges from behind the couch, until they’re standing across the room from Oikawa, hands twisted anxiously in the hem of their shirt.

It’s a boy around his age Oikawa finally sees, dressed in black sweatpants and a grey t-shirt that has mud splattered all over it.

His hair is also covered in mud, and his eyes are wide.

“What’s your name?” Oikawa asks, voice a little steadier now that he can see the person who has broken into his home whose hands seem to be completely empty.

The boy opens his mouth as if he’s going to answer before it snaps shut again, uncertainty heavy in his eyes.

“Okay,” Oikawa says, fingers moving to rub at the bridge of his nose, which is still very sore from where he had landed on it. “How about you tell me where you came from? Did you crawl through the window?”

The boy nods once, sharp and jerky.

“Okay,” Oikawa says. He seems to be using that word a lot today. “How about you tell me why you’re here before I call the police?”

The word “police” is no sooner out of his mouth than the boy begins to shake his head fervently, backing up a few steps and stumbling in his haste, bumping into the bar that separates Oikawa’s living room from his kitchen.

A few pots that had been stacked there clang to the floor, and the boy jumps, startled even more by the noise, his eyes getting wider, absolutely terrified.

“Hey hey,” Oikawa says, holding up both hands but not moving from his spot. “Calm down, it’s okay.”

Something in his chest twists at the lost look the boy throws him from under his eyelashes, red now staining his cheeks, fingers in a white-knuckled grip around the edge of his t-shirt.

Oikawa checks the time on the clock hanging above his fridge.

It’s late and he’s exhausted, ready to fall into his bed and sleep for a few days, even if there is a complete stranger in his home.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” he hears himself saying even though the words coming out of his mouth are completely insane, sleep tugging at his limbs. “You can take a shower, borrow some clothes, and then sleep here for the night.”

The boy doesn’t move, and Oikawa is pretty sure he’s holding his breath judging by how still he’s just gone, shoulders tense and eyes barely hopeful.

“But you have to promise me that in exchange, you’ll tell me your name and where you came from after you shower,” Oikawa continues, holding up a finger. He’s not entirely sure that this is a perfect plan, hell, it’s definitely not a good one, but he’s not completely heartless either and the boy just looks so desperate and scared that Oikawa can’t bring himself to throw him out.

Letting him shower and eat will be harmless unless the guy is actually a psychopath and is waiting to kill Oikawa with his bare hands. But he looks more lost and scared than deadly.

The other nods so fast and hard that Oikawa’s almost afraid his head’s going to fall off.

“Right,” Oikawa says, ignoring that little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Iwaizumi and that’s telling him that this is a terrible idea. “Ummm, just follow me then. The bathroom’s this way.”

He doesn’t wait to see if the boy is actually following him, just turns around and starts walking down the short hallway off of the living room that leads to the bathroom, his bedroom, and the guest bedroom. 

The soft sound of footsteps follows after a few silent seconds.

Oikawa flips the bathroom light on as he passes by, light spilling out into the hallway, and keeps moving until he’s standing in his bedroom closet. 

“Just wait there,” he calls over his shoulder, rummaging through a few drawers until he finds a pair of grey sweatpants, and a white t-shirt that looks small enough to not completely dwarf the boy's smaller shoulders.

He hesitates a moment before grabbing a pair of clean boxers as well.

“This is crazy,” he mutters to himself, almost second-guessing his decision and making a straight path for his phone so he can actually call law enforcement.

But he doesn’t.

When Oikawa emerges from his bedroom, he sees with relief that the boy is standing where he asked him to, fiddling with his fingers, eyes darting around the house, muddy sneakers planted firmly in front of the bathroom.

“There’s a clean towel already in there,” Oikawa says, gesturing inside the bathroom before holding out the pile of clothes. 

The boy falters for a moment, eyes flickering to Oikawa’s outstretched hands and then to his face before he slowly, tentatively reaches out to take the clothes from him.

“And you can leave your clothes on the floor. I’ll wash them after you’re done in there,” Oikawa continues, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. “So um, yeah, take your time and just call if you need anything.”

Oikawa watches as the boy nods and darts into the bathroom, closing the door quickly.

As soon as the lock clicks, Oikawa sighs, shuffling back into the living room and turning on the lamp in the corner of the room before he turns off the bigger light and shuts and locks the window that he had left open this morning. 

His headache, forgotten during the panic with the boy who’s currently in his shower, has returned full force and with a vengeance.

The room is now washed over with a softer, less painful light, and Oikawa meanders to the kitchen, finding the bottle of aspirin in his medicine drawer and shaking two of the bright orange pills into his palm.

_“There’s a complete stranger in my shower,”_ he thinks, filling a glass with water and swallowing the painkillers. _“He’s probably getting mud all over the walls.”_

All in all, Oikawa thinks he’s handling this whole situation pretty well. 

He’s never had trouble with socialization. In fact, he’s a social butterfly, good at reading people and at getting them to like him.

Iwaizumi calls it silly words like “narcissism” and “overly large ego”, but Oikawa knows he has a gift.

But despite all of this, despite his popularity and the constant crowd of people that seems to surround him whenever he’s not at home, Oikawa isn’t accustomed to having people invade his actual private space.

Iwaizumi is an exception. They’ve known each other since they were still in diapers, and sometimes Oikawa feels like Iwaizumi knows him better than he knows himself.

But other than that and a handful of other friends from high school, Oikawa isn’t the type to bring just anyone home.

So having a boy he met less than fifteen minutes ago sleep over should be weird or upsetting.

Especially since he was definitely uninvited.

But Oikawa doesn’t feel too troubled.

He’s mainly tired.

“Maybe that’s it,” he mumbles out loud, to himself. “Maybe I’m just so worn out that I don’t have the strength to care.”

But he knows it’s more than that.

The boy had seemed terrified, more scared than he should’ve been considering Oikawa was the one who had come home to an intruder.

He could’ve run for it, made it to the front door before Oikawa could grab him or call the police.

He could’ve attacked Oikawa.

But he had seemed to be more worried about being thrown out.

_“He could’ve murdered someone,”_ Oikawa’s conscious berates him. _“He could be running away because he actually committed a serious crime.”_

Oikawa shrugs the thoughts away even though he knows it’s stupid to do so. He should probably be calling the police while the boy is in his bathroom. Or calling someone to let them know about the situation.

Instead he walks back into the living room to fish his phone out of his backpack and open up the chat message he has with Iwaizumi.

**To: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**From: Earthling babe <3**

**Don’t freak out but theres a stranger in my shower**

**Just wanted to let you know in case i die**

Considering that suitable, Oikawa goes to set his glass in the sink and strolls back into the living room, grabbing his backpack from where he’d left it beside the couch, and making his way back to his bedroom.

The shower is running now, the sound filtering through the bathroom door as Oikawa passes by, but other than that, it’s silent.

Not that he had been expecting the boy to be singing or anything.

He changes quickly after closing his bedroom door, shucking off his dark-wash jeans and the black hoodie he had thrown on this morning after he had missed his alarm and had been hopping around the kitchen with a piece of toast in his mouth trying to pull his sneakers on.

At least he had managed to shower the night before and had had just enough time before leaving this morning to slip his contacts in. His glasses would have broken after he face-planted into the floor earlier.

Feeling a little better because the painkillers are starting to set in and his nose isn’t throbbing anymore, and because he’s changed into a comfortable pair of sleep pants and a t-shirt, Oikawa returns to the living room to sprawl across the couch, grabbing the tv remote.

He might as well see what’s on to pass the time.

He’s ten minutes into some cheesy rom-com starring a girl wearing way too much blush and a guy who looks like he’s constipated every time he speaks, when he hears the bathroom door creak open.

Oikawa straightens from where he’s managed to slump farther and farther down on the couch, half-closed eyes fluttering open and grogginess disappearing in an instant.

Footsteps move hesitantly down the hallway until the boy appears around the corner, barefoot and clean.

For a split second, Oikawa doesn’t recognize him.

And then he realizes that it’s because the boy is no longer hidden beneath three layers of dirt.

His hair is wet and there’s a lock that’s stuck to his forehead, but even in the dim lighting, his hair practically shines, a startling silver that reminds Oikawa of some type of star. The color contrasts sharply with the golden-brown of his eyes, and his skin is flushed a soft pink from the shower.

He’s pretty. Oikawa can’t think of another word that would better describe him, and he doesn’t mean it in anything other than a platonic way.

It’s just a fact.

Oikawa’s borrowed pants hang from his hips, rolled up at the bottoms a few times, and the shirt is still pretty big, hanging down to the boy’s thighs, but he looks a lot more comfortable now.

“Are you hungry?” Oikawa asks, feeling his own stomach rumble at the words. He’d had three coffees over the course of the day, and a sesame bagel that he’d managed to snag in between finals, but he’s just now realized that he hasn’t had anything since then.

He figures they can talk after he finds them both something to eat.

The boy shifts a little before nodding.

Oikawa stands up quickly, smoothing out his rumpled shirt and subconsciously running his fingers through his bangs to flip them back from where they’ve fallen over his forehead.

“Okay, you just sit here and make yourself comfortable and I’ll see what I have in the kitchen,” he says, waving a hand towards the couch and trying to sound nonchalant.

He slides into the kitchen, listening for the quiet padding steps he’s already come to associate with the other boy.

Opening the fridge, Oikawa wrinkles his nose in distaste. He hadn’t had time to go grocery shopping during finals week, and the only things lying in the fluorescent lighting are two eggs and a take-out box from a café downtown that is who-knows-how-old.

“Nice,” he mutters to himself, letting the door swing closed before he starts rummaging through his cabinets.

Peeking over his shoulder briefly, Oikawa catches a glimpse of silver hair just above the back his couch, contrasting with the darker grey suede.

The quest for food in the cabinets isn’t much more fulfilling, Oikawa coming up with nothing substantial besides a half-filled box of Fruit Loops.

“Order out it is,” he hums, not too excited about having to call out for food, but too hungry to care.

He fishes in his pockets for his cellphone, pulling it out to reveal almost a dozen new messages and a few very recently missed calls from Iwaizumi. 

Oops, he had turned his sound off in class and had forgotten to turn it back on when he got home.

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**are you trying to tell me you got laid? because i didn’t want to know**

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**also that’s a shitty way to phrase it… are you purposefully fucking with me rn?**

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**hello shittykawa… usually when someone texts you the normal response is to text them back**

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**well congrats on finally getting some asshole… i’m going to bed, today’s been hell**

There’s a five minute space between this text and the next one.

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**seriously though, where are you??**

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**i’m not your mother you motherfucker… you’d better text me back before i come over there**

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**seriously, were you stupid enough to actually bring a stranger to your apartment??**

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**OIKAWA i am this close to killing you rn**

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**seriously you dumbass, text me something like oh sorry iwa-chan i was too busy being an idiot to text you back**

Oikawa smirks as he scrolls through the messages. Iwa-chan does love him after all.

Deciding that texting probably isn’t the best option at the moment, Oikawa dials Iwaizumi quickly, the other line ringing once before it’s answered.

“If this is the stranger that was in Oikawa’s shower and you’ve killed him, I’ll help you get rid of the idiot’s body.”

Oikawa’s grin only grows wider at Iwaizumi’s words, the other boy’s voice gruff and annoyed, and he can see the way that Iwa-chan’s eyebrows furrow in the middle of his forehead when he’s upset, can see the scowl gracing his mouth.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m still alive,” Oikawa says, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he reaches up into a cabinet to grab two glasses.

The boy is still sitting on his couch, but Oikawa can tell he’s listening to his conversation, back ram-rod straight.

“I knew you luuurved me, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa sing-songs, to which his best friend scoffs. 

A different voice says something on Iwaizumi’s side of the line, the person’s tone sleepy even through the phone.

There’s a muffled response from Iwaizumi, and he’s obviously covering the receiver with his palm, and Oikawa strains to eavesdrop, but it’s useless so he busies himself by filling the two glasses with water from the sink.

“Sorry,” Iwaizumi says when his voice comes back on. “Actually, no I’m not. I should hang up on you.”

“Did I wake poor Kaash-chan?” Oikawa coos, still keeping an eye on the stranger in his living room.

“You know Akaashi hates it when you call him that,” Iwaizumi warns over the phone, but it’s half-hearted. Oikawa knows his best friend’s boyfriend doesn’t actually hate the nickname. Strongly dislikes, maybe.

“Anyway,” Iwaizumi continues before Oikawa can answer, “it seems like you’re unfortunately still in one piece so I’m going to go now.”

“Wait, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whines, half-pouting even though he knows Iwaizumi can’t see him. “I wasn’t lying about the shower.”

Iwaizumi is silent for a few seconds before, “Oh my God, is there actually someone over right now?”

Oikawa decides not to feel offended at the disbelief in his friend’s tone, and instead focuses on lowering his own voice so the boy won’t hear him.

“There is, but I really don’t know him. He was in my apartment when I got home.”

There’s two beats of pure silence.

“You’re fucking with me. Seriously, it’s almost midnight, I want to sleep and you should too. If this is payback for me spilling coffee on your stupid Star Wars blanket the other night, then I’m so-”

“I’m being serious, Hajime,” Oikawa hisses, and the drop of the -chan seems to convince Iwaizumi immediately.

“Wait, what? Are you actually a fucking moron? Why haven’t you called the police? How did he even get in? Does he have a weapon? Oh my God, you left your fucking windows open again didn’t you? Do you even know his _name_?”

Oikawa holds the phone away from his ear slightly, Iwaizumi’s voice progressively getting louder until he’s shouting.

Akaashi’s voice is suddenly there again, this time laced with concern, but Iwaizumi is still shouting and Oikawa can’t really tell what either of them are saying.

“Okay, just thought I’d let someone know in case I disappear tomorrow,” Oikawa says cheerily, ignoring Iwaizumi’s, “Don’t you fucking dare hang up on me, Oikawa.”

Oikawa hangs up.

And then he sighs. That conversation really took the energy out of him.

Oikawa slides his phone back into his pocket, ignoring the way it buzzes angrily, probably from Iwaizumi texting and calling him, and grabs the glasses from the side of the sink before moving back into the living room.

The boy jumps a little as Oikawa passes by, but stays seated, legs curled up under him and back straight.

The sight almost makes Oikawa want to laugh, but he bites his lip and refrains, instead setting the glasses down on the coffee table and pulling his phone out again, punching in a familiar number and listening to the other line ring a few times before a very bored, very flat voice comes on the line.

“Pizza Orgasmica,” the boy on the other side of the line sighs, and then pauses, almost as if he’s waiting for Oikawa to laugh at the name or say something crude. Oikawa waits. (He had laughed maybe the first  ten five times he had called for pizza, but he’s much more mature now. Maybe.) 

“How can I help you?” the boy finally asks, still sounding exasperated but a little less irritated. 

“I need to order a delivery,” Oikawa answers, eyes flickering from his kitchen to the boy on his couch and back.

“Okay, let it rip. I’m ready when you are,” the boy says, sighing again at the end of the sentence.

After Oikawa has ordered two pizzas, one Doggie Style pizza (which is his favorite) and a First Kiss pizza (which has shrimp which everyone likes right?), and after the guy taking his order (who informs him that his name is Tsukishima Kei and if Oikawa has any problems to feel free to call back even though his tone basically says otherwise) gets his address and tells him that it’ll be forty-five minutes, Oikawa hangs up and stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room.

He shouldn’t feel awkward in his own home, but he doesn’t see any way around it.

“The food’ll be here soon,” he says in the silence.

The movie is still playing in the background, the actors’ voices too quiet to make out any actual words, so Oikawa slowly steps closer, moving as slow as he can until he’s on the other side of the living room, next to the wall with the windows and the armchair squished between the couch and the large telescope Iwaizumi had bought him for his twentieth birthday, during the summer before their junior year at New York University.

The boy (who Oikawa has now unconsciously started calling Silver-chan in his head) watches every step until Oikawa is sitting in the armchair.

“Do you like rom-coms, Silver-chan?” Oikawa asks, and Silver-chan tilts his head to the side, expression morphing from tense to slightly less tense and confused.

He’s probably absolutely bewildered by Oikawa who has not asked him any substantial questions yet and who has also ordered pizza as if he has a friend over instead of someone who crawled through his living room window.

“There really isn’t anything else on tv,” Oikawa continues, not really sure where he’s going with this but feeling the need to make idle chatter. He leans forward to grab the remote from the coffee table and turns the volume up a little. 

Onscreen, the actors are standing outside in a sudden downpour in the middle of the city, apparently deciding that they’d rather confess their love and get completely drenched at the same time instead of move to stand under an overhang three feet away.

Oikawa wrinkles his nose at the cheesy, poorly-written lines. 

“Or I can put a movie on,” he suggests, watching Silver-chan out of the corner of his eye. The boy is watching the screen, but Oikawa is pleased to see that he almost has an identical, fleeting, expression of disgust as Oikawa on his face, nose crinkling up a little and eyes narrowed.

“New movie it is,” Oikawa supplies, since Silver-chan is deciding not to answer, muting the tv.

He lifts himself out of the armchair only to get on his hands and knees on the floor and crawl over to a box he has pushed under the table the tv rests on, sitting on the floor once he reaches it.

Vaguely, he registers that nothing seems to be missing from his apartment, which either means that the boy isn’t a thief or that he just hadn’t had time to actually snag something before Oikawa got home.

“Hmmm, let’s see, I have all of the Star Wars movies, the Star Trek movies, Pirates of the Caribbean, a few Ghibli films, Gravity, Avatar, Prometheus- wait, forget that one, it sucked hardcore. Ummm, Iwa-chan left his copy of Godzilla here the other night, so there’s that one if you’re into giant sea monsters, and I have Pacific Rim, which is an excellent movie, lots of action, lots of screaming.”

As he’s been talking, Oikawa’s been tossing the DVDs onto the floor behind him, and when he turns to look at Silver-chan, he’s startled to see that the boy has moved closer, perched over the coffee table to peer down at the collection of movies.

Up closer, Oikawa can make out long, black eyelashes and what looks like a tiny silver scar just at the edge of a soft mouth. 

But it’s the black band wrapped around the boy’s right wrist that gets his attention the most. It’s almost like a hospital tag, plastic and loose, with something inscribed in gold across the surface.

Oikawa leans forward unconsciously to read it, and two seconds later, the boy is back on the couch, arms wrapped around his knees.

“Sorry, sorry,” Oikawa apologizes, leaning back and inwardly cursing himself.

He’s not sure why he’s not questioning the boy, why he’s not demanding answers right now instead of trying to pick out a movie, but he swallows down the questions that rise in the back of his throat at the realization that he should be when he notices the boy’s eyes focused on his face instead of flitting away like they usually do whenever Oikawa makes direct eye contact.

For a few moments it’s quiet, Silver-chan seemingly studying Oikawa, eyes locked onto his own, and Oikawa gets the feeling that the boy is making a very important decision as weird as that sounds.

So he stays still, one hand still pressed against the smooth plastic of a DVD cover and the other supporting his weight, palm pressed to the carpet.

Outside the sounds of city traffic filter through the windows, honks and shouts, the lights of the buildings shimmering through the gaps in his galaxy-print curtains.

A floor above them, Oikawa hears the scrape of a chair and then the slam of a door.

But all of that is background noise, unnecessary static, because at the moment, Oikawa feels like he’s being judged when it should really be the other way around.

He holds Silver-chan’s gaze until the boy seems to relax into the couch, shoulders not as rigid.

Oikawa is just about to let loose a sigh of relief (he’s not even sure why he’s so wound up in the first place, but the idea of the boy running away because he’s scared of him leaves Oikawa feeling shitty) when a different noise stops him mid-breath.

“Suga.”

Oikawa stares, face probably stupid with shock, at the boy on his couch, sure he probably just imagined that, that he’s just too hungry and sleep-deprived, that-

But the boy shifts awkwardly and points at his chest, face screwed up with apprehension but also determination, and cuts off Oikawa’s inner monologue with three more words.

“My name’s Suga.”


	2. raindrops and the white-hot heat of stars

Oikawa bites into his slice of pizza and stares.

He knows it’s rude and that he’s probably dripping tomato sauce onto his gray t-shirt, but he can’t help it.

Besides, he doubts _Suga_ notices at all.

The boy is currently devouring his third slice of pizza. And it just arrived. And it’s still tongue-burning hot.

Apparently Suga-chan really likes shrimp because he’s eating the current pizza slice in three bites despite the temperature, and Oikawa wonders with a pang of sympathy how hungry he must be to eat so fast.

Oikawa does agree that it is “orgasmic roasted shrimp”, like they advertise on their menu, but he’s still struggling to finish his first slice of Doggie Style, which is just as delicious with the pepperoni and salami and sausage and lavish amount of cheese.

Suga licks his lips when he’s done with the third slice. They had opted to sit on the floor, or rather, Oikawa had vehemently declared that no one would be eating cheese-covered, sauce-drowned, shrimp-infested pizza on his very expensive couch (his parents did spoil him sometimes when he begged).

Suga eyes the remaining slices in his pizza box as if he’s making a major life decision, but apparently decides that he’s full for now, licking his lips again, a smudge of pizza sauce visible on his skin where it has somehow landed all of the way up on the bridge of his nose.

Oikawa’s eyes wander farther up Suga’s face, and how has he not noticed that beauty mark under the other boy’s left eye before now?

Oikawa hisses as he takes a too-big bite of his own slice and hot cheese sticks to the roof of his mouth.

Suga looks at him with wide eyes as Oikawa tilts his head back and tries to swallow, humming in pain.

“Are you okay?” the boy asks, and his voice sends a prick of surprise up Oikawa’s spine. He’s not used to Suga speaking, and he hasn’t done it enough for Oikawa to be close to getting used to it.

When Oikawa manages to get the bite down his throat, he looks back down to see Suga watching him with concern.

“I’m fine,” Oikawa manages to cough out, grabbing for his glass of water that’s resting on the coffee table in between the pizza boxes. “It was a little hot.”

Suga is a mystery right now, a puzzle that Oikawa maybe wants to try to solve even though the boy is only staying the night.

As soon as Suga had apparently deemed it safe enough to trust Oikawa, he had opened up a little more, not springing away whenever Oikawa got within a five-foot radius and talking in bits and pieces, most of it just him saying thank you for the pizza.

But Oikawa has postponed asking him any serious questions (mainly, “Why did you think it was a good idea to crawl into someone else’s home?”) in lieu of them eating, so he knows nothing but part of the boy’s name.

Not even a full name and Oikawa is letting him sit on his living room floor at almost one in the morning and eat pizza.

Godzilla plays on the tv, Suga’s choice, and Oikawa wonders vaguely if Iwaizumi is actually taking the subway over right now or if Akaashi has convinced him to think rationally. Surely Iwaizumi doesn’t actually think that Oikawa wouldn’t call the police first if he was in actual danger.

Oikawa isn’t scared anymore. Suga seems completely harmless, sitting with his legs crossed on the floor with pizza sauce on his nose and his hair still damp from the shower.

But Oikawa does need to start asking questions.

So he puts the rest of his slice down onto his plate and takes a sip of his water and then leans back onto his palms, his back to the tv.

Suga finishes his own glass of water and Oikawa watches the slender length of his neck when he swallows before glancing away.

When he looks back, Suga’s eyes are already on him.

“You have questions,” he says, and it’s a statement, not a hint of doubt in the words.

Oikawa laughs a little, running a hand through his hair.

“I have a lot of questions,” he agrees.

Suga doesn’t respond, just sits there and looks at him, waiting for Oikawa to start.

Oikawa wonders if the boy’s been creating lies in his mind this entire time, thinking up a plausible fake story. But something about Suga’s posture, open, eyes clear, makes Oikawa think that maybe he’s only going to tell him the truth.

So he takes a breath before speaking.

“What’s your full name?”

Oikawa hadn’t really been planning on that being his first question. It had just kind of slipped out.

“Sugawara Koushi.”

Oikawa blinks, taken aback by the direct answer.

“Okay, um, why did you break into a stranger’s apartment, Sugawara Koushi?”

“I was running and your window was open.”

Oikawa frowns. “Running? You mean like away from someone?”

Oh God, has he just been involved in some kind of gang war? Or is Suga actually running from the police?

Suga hesitates only a little, Oikawa can see it in the small quiver of his mouth, before he answers.

“Yes.”

“Okay, um, could you be more specific? Who were you running from? Why were they chasing you?”

Suga fiddles with the hem of Oikawa’s borrowed shirt, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

Oikawa lets the silence drag out, waiting patiently, unwilling to say anything more that will give Suga reason to not answer the questions.

Suga eventually looks up to meet his gaze, doubt and hesitation flashing across his face.

“Can I trust you?”

Oikawa blinks.

“Wha-,” he tries to ask, like he hadn’t understood him the first time, but Suga is suddenly surging up onto his knees and leaning forward, fingers digging into Oikawa’s shoulders.

Oikawa almost shouts out in alarm, sure he’s being attacked, but Suga doesn’t move any closer, just stays hovering on his knees in front of Oikawa, palms warm through his t-shirt.

“Can I trust you?” Suga repeats, completely serious and eyes unwavering.

A thousand different thoughts are running through Oikawa’s head and Suga smells like Oikawa’s shampoo, but he manages to form a coherent sentence.

“It depends on what you did,” he answers honestly.

Suga seems to mull over Oikawa’s words before he finally nods and sits back down, hands leaving Oikawa’s shoulders.

Oikawa watches, everything else around them seeming to fade away, as Suga raises his right wrist, the one with the black wristband.

He holds it close enough for Oikawa to read the words on it.

_Power to many, obedience for all._

Oikawa squints at the sentence, confusion just settling deeper into his bones. 

“Are you a part of a gang or something?” he asks, the only plausible reason he can think of for as to why Suga would be wearing something like this.

Suga shakes his head. “A gang?” he says, almost like he’s unsure what the word means. “No, they- they always call themselves a-” 

He cuts off, obviously struggling to tell Oikawa the entire truth, eyes still full of trepidation, full of fear, so Oikawa changes direction.

“Okay, so not a gang. But whoever it was was chasing you, right?”

Suga nods.

That would explain why he had been covered in mud. It had been raining the past few days in the city.

“And you saw my window was open and you needed someplace to hide?” Oikawa continues.

Suga nods again.

“Why were they after you?” Oikawa asks, keeping his voice soft and steady.

Suga looks ready to bolt, like a frightened animal, but he seems to steel himself, taking a deep breath and glancing up at Oikawa from where he’s been staring at the floor.

“I have to show you.”

Definitely not for the first time tonight Oikawa wonders just what he’s managed to get himself into. Suga had said no gang was related, but what could he possibly have to show him?

“Don’t be scared,” Suga says quickly, as if reading Oikawa’s mind. He fidgets, pulling his lower lip back between pearlescent teeth again, a sure sign of nervousness. “I don’t know how else to explain-”

He cuts off, inhaling once before, “I don’t have to show you if you don’t want me-”

Oikawa interrupts him this time. “No, no, I do. Just-”

It’s Oikawa’s turn to pause, unsure of how to phrase his next words.

“It’s not dangerous, right?” he finally settles with asking, and, of all things, Suga smiles.

Oikawa’s breath catches in his throat because it’s the first genuine smile Suga’s shown, and also because no one’s smile should be that bright or beautiful or -

Oikawa clears his throat, and Suga is shaking his head, saying, “No, it’s not, but it’s best to see when it’s dark.”

Oikawa quirks an eyebrow at that, but Suga’s face doesn’t change, just stays sincere, so Oikawa heaves himself off of the floor to flip off the lamp in the living room and then switch off the tv.

There’s the electricity of excitement in Oikawa’s chest, side-by-side with the tightness of anticipation and the sharp edge of nerves, but he’s come this far without freaking out, so he settles back in front of Suga without saying anything.

The apartment is as dark as it’s going to get with the city lights outside the windows, and since Suga is facing them, Oikawa can still see most of his features, the curve of his shoulders, the pale shapes of his hands.

It’s with bated breath that Oikawa watches those hands raise up from Suga’s lap, the boy holding them at chest-level, cupped together like a person would do to scoop water.

As Oikawa’s eyes adjust to the dark, he can see Suga’s face screw up with concentration, eyes falling closed, and he can’t help but study the other’s features, taking in the shape of his eyebrows, which are the same unusual shade as his hair, the gentle slope of the bridge of his nose, the bow of his mou-

Light.

Oikawa blinks once, twice.

Brings a hand up to rub at his eyes.

But no, he’s not imagining it, and yes, it’s there.

At first, it’s so small and fleeting that it would be missed with the blink of an eye, the smallest lag in concentration.

It’s colorless and the purest form of white at the same time, like sparks of snow, like raindrops made of the white-hot heat of stars.

And it’s coming from Suga’s fingertips.

Oikawa sucks in a sharp breath, freezing in place, watching the impossible happen.

The flecks of light increase in number, in brightness, scattering apart from each other as if they’re repelled, flickering, dancing, cascading from where they’re pooling in Suga’s palms to hit the floor below him and then disappear, winking out of existence.

Suga is creating light, if that’s what it even is, forming it as if it’s as easy as breathing, and Oikawa is speechless, mind completely blank, wide eyes meeting Suga’s own when they flutter open, irises sparkling with reflected light, something that’s a mix between joy and apprehension on his face.

“You-,” Oikawa chokes out, stumbling over words, eyes darting back down to the jaw-dropping display in his hands and then back up to his eyes. “You’re- light- where- how-”

Suga grins just a little bit bigger, face glowing, shards of light playing across his cheeks and his mouth and his neck, and Oikawa can do nothing but sit and stare, heart fluttering against his chest.

And then it ends, Suga letting his hands fall apart, the last sparks falling to bounce against the hardwood floor once before they’re gone, as if they didn’t exist in the first place.

The two of them are thrown back into darkness.

Slowly, as if Oikawa has been underwater and is just now rising to the surface, sounds begin to edge back into the world. The hum of his fridge, the light pitter-patter of raindrops against the windows because it’s started to rain again, his own breathing.

And then…

“Oh my God, you’re an alien!” Oikawa all but shouts, jumping to his feet in excitement.

Suga startles at the sudden burst of noise and movement, but Oikawa is too worked up to notice.

“That was amazing, Suga,” he says, running a hand through his hair in disbelief. “That was like- magic, or, oh my God, I don’t even know, but it was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my life! And you just- how did you do that? It was so sparkly and glittery and there were so many of them, and I swear, that was a million times better than E.T., and-”

Oikawa pauses mid-rant because he suddenly realizes that Suga is watching him with wide-eyes.

“Sorry,” he mutters sheepishly, suddenly aware that he’s been pacing back and forth across the floor in his pajamas and socks, probably talking loud enough for the entire floor to hear him, and he feels a light blush spread across his face.

Oikawa sits back down, the tops of his knees bumping into Suga’s.

For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say.

There are a million questions threatening to explode from his mouth, but he bites his tongue.

There’s no way Suga faked that. He hadn’t been holding anything, and Oikawa can’t even think of anything man-made that would produce what he just witnessed.

Suga seems to be waiting for Oikawa to speak first, alternating between looking down at his hands, now clasped tightly in his lap, and then up at Oikawa.

“Okay, I have to ask,” Oikawa starts, pulse thrumming, trying not to let his enthusiasm overpower his voice, “are you actually an alien?”

Suga looks at him curiously, tilting his head to the side and furrowing his eyebrows.

“What’s an alien?”

Oikawa’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open, but he can’t seem to close it.

“What- what’s an alien?” he repeats, stunned. “What do you mean? You’ve never heard of aliens? You know, living beings from other planets, from space? Extraterrestrials, mostly depicted as green with antennas in popular culture but I think they probably look more like us, they come to Earth in their UFO’s, E.T., Alien, Star Wars, what- HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT AN ALIEN IS?”

Oikawa stops talking, breathing hard, but Suga is still looking at him blankly, if not a little more alarmed now.

Oikawa takes a deep breath. He’ll have to save teaching Suga-chan about aliens for another day.

For now though… “So, did you come from space?”

Suga shakes his head and Oikawa’s hopes deflate.

“Hmm, okay then,” he says, just a little dejected, but Suga doesn’t seem to notice.

“I was born in Tokyo,” he says instead. “I was moved here when I was five.”

_“Moved here…,”_ Oikawa thinks. That’s an odd way to phrase it.

“You don’t think it’s weird or frightening?”

Suga is biting his lip again, avoiding eye contact, all traces of the happiness and excitement from minutes before gone.

Oikawa shakes his head quickly before remembering that Suga isn’t directly looking at him. He’s more like staring at the space above Oikawa’s left ankle.

“How could that have been frightening?” he says, being honest. “It was beautiful.”

It’s too dark to tell, but Oikawa thinks he can see the faint clouds of a blush appear on Suga’s cheeks.

But his next words, spoken almost too quietly for Oikawa to catch, are full of nothing but fear and bitterness.

“Sometimes the most beautiful things are the most dangerous.”

Oikawa, without hesitating or thinking, reaches out and wraps his index finger and thumb loosely around Suga’s wrist, the one with the odd bracelet. Suga’s skin is cool, but not unpleasantly so.

The other boy jerks the tiniest bit before catching himself and finally peering up to meet Oikawa’s eyes, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to tell me anything else,” Oikawa says seriously, parts of the puzzle already starting to fall together within his mind even though a lot of it is still blurry or missing. “These people,” he continues, brushing his thumb over the smooth plastic of the wristband, smoothing over the words, “were the ones chasing you, right?”

Suga nods without breaking eye contact, completely still like he’s holding his breath. Like he’s waiting for Oikawa to let go.

“You’re safe here,” is what Oikawa says instead. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Fleeting disbelief flashes through Suga’s eyes, quickly replaced with overwhelming relief, and Oikawa briefly wonders how much trust Suga had to put into a complete stranger to show him what he just did.

What if he had crawled through someone else’s window, into someone else’s apartment, someone who would lie and then turn around and sell Suga to the highest bidd-

Oikawa is broken from his horrified thoughts, the idea of something like that happening sending a shudder down his spine, when he’s suddenly met with an armful of Suga himself.

Letting out a startled huff, Oikawa barely manages to right himself before they both go toppling to the floor, Suga wrapping arms around his middle and hugging him.

Startled, Oikawa almost misses the soft and unsteady, “Thank you,” that comes from Suga’s mouth, the words lost somewhere between his lips and the front of Oikawa’s t-shirt, muffled.

The scent of Oikawa’s own shampoo encompasses him, some kind of coconut milk and citrusy blend, and he’s just about to return the embrace, Suga warm and soft, when a loud sound reverberates through the apartment.

Suga jerks upright, scrambling until he’s on his feet, Oikawa seconds behind him, both of them frozen because someone is hammering at Oikawa’s front door.


	3. delicate lies and silver dust

Oikawa turns to Suga, the other boy having shifted automatically to stand a little bit behind Oikawa’s taller frame, and motions towards his bedroom, mouthing the words.

_“Stay back there and don’t make any noise.”_

He’s not completely sure if Suga is able to get the whole message, but he definitely gets the general idea because he’s darting out of the living room and down the hall as fast as a shadow.

Oikawa waits a few more seconds, glancing at the time on his phone.

Who would be knocking that loud at 2:00 a.m.?

Imagining masked men and women, all of them wearing those strange words across their uniforms like something out of one of Oikawa’s sci-fi flicks, he creeps over to the door, swallowing down his panic.

Fingers poised over the numbers to call the police on his phone, Oikawa peers through the peephole in his front door, heart thundering in his ears.

And never in his life has Oikawa been more glad to see Iwaizumi.

The other boy is practically glaring holes at Oikawa’s front door, arms crossed over his chest, turning to say something to the person standing behind him, which must be Akaashi.

Heaving out a stuttering breath, Oikawa slumps against the door, hands shaking a little, before another round of loud and insistent knocks shakes it.

Of course Iwaizumi would have come over, despite the time.

“Coming, coming,” Oikawa calls out, trying to settle his nerves. He really needs some coffee. Or maybe some vodka.

Turning his phone off and smoothing his hair back, Oikawa unlocks the door and swings it open with a flourish.

“Iwa-chan,” he coos, grabbing the gloved hand that automatically rises to probably punch him in the face and yanking his best friend through the door, “what a pleasant surprise!”

Iwaizumi looks like he’s anything but “pleasant”, nose red from the cold and raindrops sticking to his hair, lips tugged down into a scowl, but he allows himself to be tugged into the apartment.

Akaashi follows behind closely, brushing past his boyfriend and Oikawa, with a small nod and greeting towards Oikawa, and moving to sit on the couch, discarding his wet scarf and coat.

He’s gotten used to the two’s bickering over the past three years and only tends to get involved if it looks like Iwaizumi is going to completely lose it.

This time though, he does say something first.

“I told you he was fine.”

Akaashi’s voice is soft and, in Oikawa’s humble opinion, moderately monotone, but even Oikawa can pick up on the exasperation and, just tangibly, the fondness in his tone.

Oikawa mentally salutes Akaashi. Being pulled through the rain and the cold at two in the morning to the other side of the city would’ve personally put him in a very bad mood, but Akaashi seems to be completely okay with it, stretching across the couch to curl into Oikawa’s cushions.

Of course, Oikawa knows that both of them give in to whatever the other wants, so he’s not too surprised.

Ah, young lov-

“I’m going to strangle you right now, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi growls, jerking his hand from Oikawa’s grip and hitting him in the ribs.

Oikawa dances away before Iwaizumi can get in another shot, pouting.

“Ow, that hurt, Iwa-chan,” he says even as his eyes drift to the hallway.

There’s no sign of Suga, and Oikawa knows that it’s important not to tell anyone about him at the moment, especially since Suga needs to stay off the social radar as much as possible, so he breathes an inward sigh of relief.

Unless Iwaizumi or Akaashi decide to venture into either of the bedrooms, he should be saf-

“Why the hell is there so much mud all over your floor?” Iwaizumi asks, scowling at the ground.

Shit.

“It’s been raining, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa says with what he hopes isn’t a nervous laugh. “Haven’t you been outside? I got a lot on my shoes-”

“And decided to track it all over your apartment?” Iwaizumi interrupts, peering around, and yes, there is a lot of mud and a lot of sneaker prints that Oikawa hadn’t noticed before, and where are Suga’s shoes?

The bathroom, he wore them into the bathroom.

Oikawa calms his heart. At least there aren’t any stray articles of clothing or strange pairs of shoes out here.

“I’ll clean it later,” Oikawa says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Do either of you want something to drink?”

“I’ll take green tea if you have it.” Akaashi’s voice is muffled and sleepy, and Oikawa glances over to find that he’s grabbed the throw from the back of the couch and has swaddled himself like a burrito.

“Right, one green tea for the beautiful Kaash-chan, and what would you like, Iwa-chan? Maybe some hot cocoa to soothe that cold soul of yours?”

Iwaizumi literally glowers at him, but then nods, and Oikawa smirks triumphantly.

“But first I’m going to clean up your mess of a home,” Iwaizumi says, and Oikawa’s smile drops.

“Are you crazy? Just sit down, it’s two in the morning and we just finished finals. I’ll take care of it,” Oikawa protests, even as Iwaizumi makes for the hallway.

“You keep your cleaning supplies back here, right?” Iwaizumi asks, even though Oikawa doesn’t know why he’s asking because Iwaizumi just has to be a mom and clean his apartment once every month and most of the cleaning supplies are from him anyway. 

Sucking in a breath of realization, Oikawa hurries to get in front of him, narrowing his eyes.

“You’re just making an excuse to scope out my apartment,” he accuses, knowing he’s right. Iwaizumi knows perfectly well that the cleaning supplies are kept in one of the closets in the kitchen.

It’s Iwaizumi’s turn to smirk at him.

“I knew it, someone is here,” he says smugly, crossing his arms and peering over Oikawa’s shoulder.

Oikawa bounces in place, ready to push Iwaizumi back into the living room if necessary.

“No one’s here,” he retorts. “And even if there were, it would be completely rude of you to just barge in on them, wherever they might be.”

Iwaizumi’s smile only gets larger and scarier.

“Who is it? That guy in our software design class that you’ve been ogling for the past two months? What was his name again? Oh yeah, Terushima, wasn’t it?”

Oikawa is pretty sure he’s sweating, but he refuses to move, even as Iwaizumi advances.

“I was only interested in his tongue piercing,” Oikawa stutters out. “It was purely physical and he has a boyfriend might I add. Trust me, I asked. Someone called Futakuchoo or Futakucha, or something. I didn’t quite catch the name to be honest, I was too focused on the piercing… IWA-CHAN, THAT’S NOT FAIR!”

Iwaizumi has used his inhumane strength to scoop Oikawa over his shoulder despite their height difference, and is moving down the hall while Oikawa struggles to break free.

“You’re getting me wet,” Oikawa all but screeches, the rain that’s soaked into Iwaizumi’s coat seeping through his thin t-shirt where it’s pressed between them. “Were you dumb enough to not carry an umbrella?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer, just hums under his breath in the most infuriating manner.

They reach the bathroom, Oikawa hoping that Iwaizumi can’t feel how fast his pulse is racing, but he’s powerless to do anything and now Iwa-chan’s going to see Suga-chan’s dirty clothes and he’s going to get dragged into whatever Suga’s involved in before Oikawa even knows the full story.

Oikawa squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think of an explanation for the muddy clothes and shoes just as Iwaizumi nudges the door open with a shoe.

“Hm, all clear,” Iwaizumi says a beat later, not sounding deterred in the least by the fact that there’s no one hiding in Oikawa’s shower.

Oikawa cracks an eye open in disbelief, getting a full view of the bathroom as soon as Iwaizumi turns around to continue down the hall.

No clothes, no shoes, just mud on the ground and in the shower.

Oikawa blinks right before the side of his head whacks against the doorframe.

“Ouch! Watch where you’re swinging me around,” he snaps at Iwaizumi, rubbing at his temple and glaring when he hears Iwaizumi’s small laugh.

The guest bedroom is next, Iwaizumi striding through the door at the end of the hallway before Oikawa can react.

But it’s empty, the bed still neatly made, the closet clear.

Rain streaks down the windows, muddling the colors outside, honey golds and sea-salted blues. Oikawa can hear the distant rumble of thunder. Or it could be the sound of traffic.

“Iwa-chan, seriously?” he tries again, hoisting his upper body up by placing both hands on Iwaizumi’s back and pushing, but Iwaizumi has an iron grip and Oikawa slumps back down. “I told you, no one’s here. And I promised Kaash-chan a green tea, so unless you want to piss your surprisingly mellow boyfriend off, I suggest you put. me. down.”

The last three words are punctuated by Oikawa’s fist hitting Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

“I can tell when you’re lying, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi responds, pushing Oikawa’s bedroom door open. “You should know that by now.”

Oikawa doesn’t really hear the last sentence. He can feel himself go stiff, unable to see his room because Iwaizumi hasn’t turned around yet and Oikawa’s still facing the hall.

Iwaizumi is silent, and for one panicked moment, Oikawa is sure that Suga has to be in plain sight, probably cowering in a corner.

He wriggles in Iwaizumi’s grip, feeling the need to simultaneously explain the situation to his best friend and to reassure Suga that Iwaizumi isn’t here to hurt him, and is surprised to feel Iwaizumi’s hold slacken and let him down.

Oikawa stumbles a little, Iwaizumi reaching out to steady him with a hand on his shoulder, but there’s no sign of surprise or confusion on Iwaizumi’s face. He just looks disappointed.

Oikawa spins around.

The room is empty. Oikawa’s bed is still unmade from this morning, black covers thrown back from his pillow, his floor lamp is still on from where he had gone in there earlier tonight, and his succulents, all three of them, are still perched in their spots on his windowsill right above his headboard.

Iwaizumi sticks his head inside the closet, but it’s also clear as far as Oikawa can see.

Oikawa surreptitiously glances at the floor near the bed, because maybe Suga had had the bright idea to crawl under, but he can’t see anything.

Iwaizumi turns to him with a frown.

Oikawa averts his eyes quickly and plasters on a smirk.

“See?” he asks smugly. “No one’s here and you look like an idiot.”

Iwaizumi opens his mouth to respond, but a voice floating in from the living room interrupts him.

“Hajime, if you don’t stop harassing Oikawa and get in here so I can have my tea, I’m leaving without you.”

Oikawa snickers behind a palm while Iwaizumi flushes.

He moves to turn off his lamp, but right as he’s passing Iwaizumi, the shorter boy puts a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“I know you’re hiding something,” he says quietly, searching Oikawa’s eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing through the door, and Oikawa can hear him say something to Akaashi a few seconds later.

Oikawa stays still for a moment, and then whispers a quiet, “Suga?”

But there’s no response.

He flips off the light, plunging the space into darkness, and then leaves, shutting the door behind him gently.

Suga has to be in the guest bedroom, but Oikawa can hear Akaashi calling him, so he throws one last glance over his shoulder towards the open door before hurrying back into the living room.

As he heats water in the glass tea kettle, watching the shimmer of the bubbles as they rise to the surface, and grabs the tea and cocoa mix from his cabinets, Oikawa thinks about Iwaizumi’s words.

It’s not that he’s a terrible liar. It’s just that Iwaizumi has always been able to pick up on the subtlest of hints. The slight hesitation before speaking a sentence, or the flicker of a blink, he grabs all of them and pieces together the truth.

And sooner or later, Oikawa knows, Iwaizumi will figure out Suga.

“Next time you decide to be an asshole and make me worry, it’d better be earlier in the day,” Iwaizumi says, no real heat behind his words as he shrugs his coat back on.

Oikawa bats his eyelashes at him coyly.

“I knew you were worried, Iwa-chan,” he says. “You try to hide your huge heart under that scary face and violent tendencies, but you’re actually just a big softi-”

Oikawa cuts off with a groan as soon as Iwaizumi’s fist catches him under the ribs.

“Ready?” Iwaizumi asks Akaashi as Oikawa doubles over trying to get his breath back.

Akaashi tries to respond, but he’s apparently tied his scarf too tight because nothing comes out but a disgruntled mumble, his fingers fumbling at the material to loosen it, dark eyelashes fluttering as he glances down at the offending piece of clothing.

Oikawa watches a smile spread across Iwaizumi’s face, warm and soft, before he reaches out to help, pulling the scarf loose gently and tugging it down from over Akaashi’s mouth.

“Gross,” Oikawa fake-gags when Iwaizumi decides to be disgustingly sweet and drops a quick kiss on his boyfriend’s mouth, but Akaashi just hums in thanks even as the tops of his cheeks flush in embarrassment.

Oikawa pushes at Iwaizumi, moving him towards the door, even as a smile threatens to appear on his own face. He’s happy that Iwaizumi is happy, but Iwaizumi doesn’t need to know that.

Sure, he had initially been a little jealous when Iwaizumi had announced that he had finally asked the pretty boy in their freshman math class out for a date because it meant less time with his best friend. But soon after, as soon as he had met Akaashi and had seen Iwaizumi’s eyes light up every time he snuck a glance at the other boy when he thought no one was watching, the envy had disappeared. Akaashi was nice and smart and he usually took Oikawa’s side on things, so it wasn’t too bad, even though Oikawa witnessed more PDA than was comfortable at times.

“Get out of my apartment,” Oikawa says, grabbing a spare umbrella from his shoe closet and handing it to Akaashi. “And take this before you both get sick.”

“Aww, Oiks-chan, I knew you loved me. Underneath all of that stupidity and self-centeredness you’re really just a big dork,” Iwaizumi mocks in a horrible imitation of Oikawa’s earlier words, but Akaashi seems to find it funny ( _“The traitor,”_ Oikawa thinks) and laughs softly before placing both hands on Iwaizumi’s back and pushing him gently out the door.

“Thanks for the tea,” he says to Oikawa with a smile before disappearing after Iwaizumi, Oikawa throwing one last, “Mean, Iwa-chan!” out the door before he closes it.

As soon as the lock clicks, Oikawa breathes out a sigh of exhaustion.

He really is tired now. 

It’s almost 3:00 a.m., which means he hasn’t slept in twenty straight hours after only getting three or four hours of sleep the morning of finals, and it’s a struggle to keep from falling asleep right there in his entryway.

He peels himself off of his door, stumbling back into the living room and barely giving the mud on the floor a second glance.

Iwaizumi had been a jerk and had decided that Oikawa could clean his own mess up, but there’s no way he’s going to do it now.

“Suga-chan,” Oikawa calls out to the quiet apartment. “You can come out now. It’s okay, they were friends.”

The apartment remains silent, even as Oikawa pauses for a good fifteen seconds.

He frowns, moving back towards his bedroom and suddenly feeling a lot more awake.

“Suga-chan,” he calls again, peeking into the guest room, and then into his own bedroom.

But there’s no sign of the silver-haired boy anywhere.

Oikawa’s heart catches in his ribcage, remembering that Suga’s clothes and shoes had somehow disappeared from the bathroom, and he checks under his bed quickly.

Empty.

_“Okay, don’t panic,”_ he tells himself even as his stomach twists.

“Suga,” Oikawa tries again, almost unsure of why he feels so worried. 

But a flash of Suga’s face passes through his mind’s eye, of brown eyes full of apprehension and a downturned mouth and slender fingers twisted into the hem of a shirt, and he’s hoping that in the panic of hearing the knocks on the door, Suga didn’t crawl out of a window and disappear into the rain.

“Shit,” Oikawa mutters, running a hand through his hair. Maybe he should’ve just brought Suga out to meet Iwaizumi and Akaashi, to tell him right then that they were friends and that they wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe he should’ve told Suga to just stay behind him when he checked the door. Maybe he should’ve-

_Bang._

Oikawa’s thoughts skid to a halt, his pulse jumping at his wrists, at the sudden noise.

He steps out of his bedroom, listening.

“Suga?”

There’s another noise, this one not as loud, more like a thud, but it’s accompanied by another unmistakable sound.

_“Oikawa.”_

Suga’s voice floats out from the direction of the bathroom, muffled, and in two seconds, Oikawa’s striding towards the sound, turning the corner into the bathroom just as both of the cabinet doors under the sink swing open.

He flips on the light.

For a moment, Oikawa is torn between letting his mouth fall open in surprise or laughing.

He quickly settles on the latter.

“Oh my God,” Oikawa gasps, all of his previous alarm vanishing with one laugh. “How did you-”

Suga looks up at him from behind a knee, his legs pressed together and pushed up to his chest, his old clothes and shoes clutched in his hands and plastered between his thighs and his stomach, and Oikawa cannot stop giggling.

“I can’t move,” Suga says.

Oikawa laughs harder.

A muddy shoe tumbles out of the cabinet, hitting the floor with a thunk, and Oikawa wonders if Suga meant to throw that.

“Okay, okay, here,” Oikawa snickers, crouching down carefully and trying to figure out how to decompress Suga.

He lightly grabs Suga’s left calf, pulling until his foot slips from where it’s pressed against the opposite wall of the inside of the space, and Suga kind of slides a little to the right, his other leg following quickly so that his upper half is still in the cabinet, but his legs are hanging out onto the bathroom floor.

“Good thing I didn’t have much under there,” Oikawa mutters, pushing the few spare rolls of toilet paper and the extra hand towel to the back as Suga emerges completely from under the sink, hair disheveled and flecks of dried mud all over his clothes.

They stand at the same time, crowded between the sink and the wall, the warmth from their bodies quickly filling the space, and Oikawa sidesteps out into the hallway, still grinning.

“Here, give me those,” he says, reaching for the clothes that Suga is picking up off of the floor. “I’ll throw them in the laundry hamper to wash tomorrow.”

Suga does as he’s told, depositing the sweatpants and t-shirt into Oikawa’s hands and then dusting the front of Oikawa’s borrowed clothes off.

“I’ll clean the floor,” he says almost sheepishly, the bangs that are falling into his eyes the color of a spiral galaxy, silver dust and incandescent stars.

“We can clean it tomorrow,” Oikawa says, waving him off. “I don’t know about you, but I need to sleep for at least twelve hours and drink about five cups of coffee before I’m going to be able to function.”

Suga is silent, still looking guilty, but he follows Oikawa out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, the clothes hitting the bottom of his laundry hamper with a soft whoosh.

“Oh!” Oikawa says, suddenly remembering. “That was Iwa-chan and Akaashi earlier, as I’m sure you heard,” he continues, turning to face Suga, who nods. “They’re friends, so there’s nothing to worry about, but I wasn’t sure if it would be okay right now to let them know you were here.”

Suga nods again, rubbing under his eye sleepily, and Oikawa notices for the first time how tired the other boy is.

“I heard them call your name,” Suga says, half-mumbling. “Is it okay to call you ‘Oikawa’?”

Oikawa blinks. Oh, yeah, he guesses he never introduced himself.

“Of course, Suga-chan,” he says teasingly. “As long as I get to call you ‘Suga-chan’.”

Suga smiles and nods even as he seems to sway on his feet, and Oikawa hurriedly gestures down the hallway.

“You can sleep in here,” Oikawa tells him, turning around and leading Suga into the guest bedroom. It’s still raining outside, but it’s gentle, a soothing push and pull as the wind hums around the city.

The guest bedroom is pretty bare, but Oikawa had bought a matching comforter set for it when he had purchased his own, and there’s another floor lamp in the corner.

Suga, Oikawa thinks, as the boy moves to stand in the room, seems to add a whole lot more to the space just by being there.

“I’ll be in my room if you need anything,” Oikawa tells him, feeling his limbs growing heavy with sleep. “Are you cold? Do you need a glass of water or anything?”

Oikawa leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest and yawning.

Suga perches on the edge of the bed, looking just as exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and shoulders curving forwards, like he’s going to collapse in on himself. He shakes his head.

“Thank you for everything,” he says instead, and Oikawa’s face softens at the seriousness of Suga’s tone.

He wants to say something, something reassuring, something warm and gentle to soothe Suga to sleep, but the words get caught in his throat.

“I wouldn’t be the amazing person I am if I hadn’t let you stay,” he ends up saying instead, but it still puts a smile on Suga’s lips, small but no less bright than his previous ones.

“Goodnight, Suga-chan,” Oikawa says softly, turning off the main light in the room and watching as Suga mumbles an airy, “Goodnight Oikawa”, before he pulls the covers back and disappears under the blankets, the top of his head the only thing visible as soon as he settles down.

Oikawa feels his own smile tug at his mouth, lingering even as he turns off the hallway light and double-checks that his front door is locked.

He had expected to be able to mull things over before falling asleep.

But as soon as his head hits his pillow, he’s out.

Outside the rain continues to fall.


	4. caffeine and constellations

Morning dawns quickly, as if the sun is trying to catch the moon, warm rays that are tinged with frost falling through the window and onto Oikawa’s pillow.

He wakes up at 9:00 a.m., yawns, rolls over to hide his face in the softness of his comforter and block out the offending light, and promptly passes out again.

The next time he wakes up the angle of the sun has shifted, and Oikawa realizes he didn’t close his curtains in his bedroom last night (this morning?) so the sunlight streaming in is hitting the framed photos on the opposite wall with full force, glinting off of the glass.

Oikawa sits up slowly, groaning and covering his eyes, readjusting his shirt from where it’s ridden halfway up his stomach.

For a few blurry-eyed moments, Oikawa just sits there and lets the sleep still clinging to his shoulders fall away.

And then the events of the night before all come rushing back in, little flashes of memories.

Suga telling him his name, Suga hiding in his bathroom cabinet, Suga falling asleep in the guest bedroom.

Suga showing him the most beautiful and completely impossible yet very real phenomenon, his silhouette highlighted against Oikawa’s dark apartment by the sparks of stars.

Rubbing at his eyes a few times, Oikawa swings his legs over the edge of his bed, socked feet sliding over the hardwood floor, and peers at his phone.

12:00 p.m..

The apartment is silent, so he’s assuming Suga is still asleep.

Today should have been the morning that Suga left, that Oikawa sent him off on his way with maybe some money and the clothes he let him borrow.

But after last night…

Oikawa hums, stretching his arms over his head and running fingers through his hair, trying to wrap his mind around everything all over again.

Outside, a few people pass by his building. A girl on a black skateboard, blowing a pink bubble into the frozen air before it snaps back into her mouth. A man wearing a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase, coffee in his other hand, the steam floating into the air and lingering for a few seconds like a miniature cloud. A woman with a bright yellow scarf that trails behind her in the wind like a comet, contrasting sharply with her dark hair.

There’s no way Oikawa is going to throw Suga out. Not now, not when he knows that Suga’s in trouble.

Oikawa knows that he may be acting extremely naive, could be being fooled by a pretty face and vulnerable eyes.

But Suga hasn’t done anything so far that would make Oikawa doubt him.

Anyone on the street could be looking for Suga, probably is looking for him, and if Suga had been desperate enough to trust Oikawa wholeheartedly with his secret, even when they had only known each other for a few hours, so that he could have a place to stay hidden, Oikawa knows that the people looking for him are not kind.

With that thought in mind, and also while wondering how he’s going to get Suga to tell him a little more about his past before the day ends, Oikawa gets out of bed, tiptoeing out into the hallway and down towards the guest bedroom.

He had left the door open last night, so he can already see the bed, and it’s… empty.

“Seriously?” Oikawa mutters to himself, refusing to panic like he had last night. “He always disappears.”

He turns around, peeking into the bathroom on his way to the living room, but it’s also empty.

Oikawa hears Suga before he actually sees him.

There’s the sound of something being knocked over, followed by a low murmur, the kind that you usually hear someone do when they’ve spilled their coffee or run into someone on the street because they weren’t looking.

Oikawa emerges into the living room to Suga holding his Swiffer mop in one hand and one of the picture frames from his entryway table in the other, Suga’s eyes immediately widening when he notices Oikawa.

Oikawa’s mouth twitches up at the sight.

Half of the floor is clean, the hardwood shiny and probably still slippery, so Oikawa gingerly steps until he’s closer to the kitchen, wincing as the bottoms of his socks grow damp.

Gross.

“I didn’t mean to knock it over,” Suga says sheepishly, placing the frame, which isn’t broken, back onto the table. It’s an old picture from high school, the selfie Oikawa had snapped of him and Iwaizumi and Makki and Mattsun on their last day of summer before they all left for college.

In it, Iwaizumi is almost smiling, Oikawa is flashing his signature peace sign and sticking his tongue out, which is cherry red from the ice-cream they had just eaten, and Makki and Mattsun are simultaneously flipping the camera off, arms wound around each other’s waists. The sun is directly in front of them, giving everyone an almost ethereal glow, painting the tips of their hair and the edges of their shoulders gold.

Oikawa remembers that day. Remembers the press of the humidity, the sticky layer of sweat on his skin, the chill of the ice-cream in his mouth. Remembers flipping some of it off of his spoon at Iwa-chan’s face and missing, hitting Makki in the ear, the sugary-sweet treat quickly melting and dripping down his neck. Remembers the ensuing chaos, Makki taking no prisoners and shoving a spoonful of his own strawberry ice-cream down the back of Oikawa’s shirt amidst screaming and laughter.

Remembers the crushing weight of nostalgia in the pit of his stomach as the four of them had watched the sun set over their school on the way home, years of memories flashing in the reflection of the sun on the glass and metal.

“It’s fine,” Oikawa says, still a little groggy. Coffee, he needs coffee. “Don’t worry about the mess right now. We can eat and then clean.”

He reaches out to take the Swiffer from Suga’s fingers and then leans it up against a wall.

Suga looks like he’s going to protest, lips parting to speak, damp spots visible on the front of the white t-shirt he’s wearing, so Oikawa grabs his hand and tugs him out of the entryway, Suga’s fingers pleasantly warm.

He hears Suga suck in a sharp breath, but the boy doesn’t say anything, just lets himself be led to the kitchen.

Oikawa drops his hand and points to one of the kitchen chairs.

“Sit,” he says, turning around to rummage in the drawer that he keeps all of his instant coffee in.

Just the smell is enough to somewhat clear the haze in his mind, to make the pressure behind his eyes lessen a little and everything come more into focus.

“Do you like milk in your coffee?” he asks over his shoulder, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet and flipping on the coffeemaker.

There’s a small pause before Suga answers.

The response is mumbled and soft, and Oikawa turns around to find Suga fidgeting in the chair, looking embarrassed.

Brow furrowing, Oikawa suddenly remembers how Suga hadn’t known what an “alien” was last night, and it’s like another piece the puzzle clicks into place.

“Suga-chan,” Oikawa says, keeping his words slow and measured, “it’s okay if you don’t know.”

Suga lifts his head to look at him, some kind of delicate tenacity in his eyes, and sighs, eyes shifting away again.

“I know what coffee is,” he mumbles, fingers twisting into the end of his shirt like they seem to do whenever he’s worried. “But I’ve never had it. The caffeine, it-”

He cuts off so abruptly it’s as if he hadn’t been speaking in the first place, but Oikawa doesn’t say anything.

“Do you like milk?” he asks instead.

Suga’s eyes flicker back to his, a flash of umber, before he focuses on a space on the wall.

He nods.

Quietly, Oikawa pours milk into one of the mugs and sets it down on the kitchen table by Suga’s elbow.

As he waits for the coffee to brew, Oikawa leans a hip against the counter and stares out the window behind the kitchen table, just past Suga’s profile.

Suga is quieter this morning, more reserved than he had been last night. Oikawa can see the newfound tension in the curve of his neck and in the pressure his fingers wrap around the mug with.

Oikawa understands his withdrawal.

He can’t imagine being in Suga’s place. Waking up in a stranger’s apartment, obsessing over whether he had made the right choices the night before, wondering how everything was going to play out from here on.

The coffeemaker finishes, the last drops of coffee hissing out of the spout, and Oikawa grabs his mug, moving to sit down.

For a few minutes, they sit in silence.

The coffee is wonderfully hot and leaves Oikawa more alert with each sip.

Outside, people rush to work or to a friend’s apartment or to an art class, earphones in, scarves wrapped around faces, the café across the street full of customers.

Oikawa takes another drink, palms pleasantly warm where they’re wrapped around his mug.

Suga’s bracelet catches on the edge of the table when he moves his arm, plastic clicking against the surface.

Oikawa glances at it.

Black and gold, dark and light.

“So,” Oikawa says, breaking the silence, “there’s not much to eat for breakfast here. I’m going to have to go grocery shopping. Unless you want the pizza.”

He had thrown the remaining slices into the fridge this morning before Iwaizumi and Akaashi had left, but the idea of having it for breakfast isn’t very appealing.

“But,” Oikawa starts, steeling himself and then pausing. This is for Suga’s own good he tells himself before continuing. “We need to talk more. About you.”

Suga is silent, but it’s clear that the words have an effect. His eyes meet Oikawa’s in the quiet kitchen, the comforting smell of coffee lingering in the air. His eyes are a startling shade of amber in the sunlight, his black beauty mark prominent against his skin.

Oikawa presses on.

“I need to know a little more to be able to keep you safe,” he says, knowing that he’s right. If Suga is going to be living with him, then Oikawa needs to know the entire story. They need to be on the same page to keep them both safe.

Suga nods slowly, raising his mug to his lips to take another sip. 

His fingers are trembling.

Oikawa abandons his coffee, biting his lower lip, and waits.

Suga shifts in his seat, setting his mug down on the table before taking a breath.

“You saw what I can do last night,” he starts, and Oikawa doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head in agreement even though Suga isn’t looking his way.

Suga brushes his bangs off his forehead with an unsteady hand, gazing out of the kitchen window.

His voice gets quieter.

“The first time it happened I was five.”

_“I was moved here when I was five.”_

Last night’s words flutter through Oikawa’s mind.

“And you were brought here,” Oikawa says quietly before he can stop himself.

Suga takes another breath, this one shakier, and nods.

“I was raised here, but not out in the open. It was too dangerous, they told us. The outside world wouldn’t be able to handle what we could do. Our parents hadn’t been able to, so how would everyone else? Beautiful but dangerous.”

Oikawa’s heart tightens at that, imagining a five-year-old Suga being told that, imagining the look on his face, what he must have felt.

Suga’s voice cracks a little on the last sentence, but he keeps going.

“We were studied, taught every day. Given a place to sleep, food, free time to be with the others. They were never cruel, never impatient. It became home.”

There’s fondness in Suga’s tone, a soft expression briefly crossing his face, as if he’s reliving good memories.

But Oikawa feels his heart thump irregularly, sensing the hidden “but” in Suga’s words.

“I learned how to control my ability. Other children came and went, but there were those of us who stayed over the years, and we stuck together. I was happy.”

Suga stops talking for a moment, twists the fingers of his left hand around the bracelet around his wrist and pulls, as if he’s trying to rip it off, mouth twisting into a grimace.

“And then I found out that they were going to take Kenma from me,” Suga continues, voice tiny. “Just a few days ago actually. There were rumors that he was scheduled to be sent to a different facility, one on the other side of the country. I left my room that night. I wanted to speak to one of my teachers, the one I knew might be able to stop it from happening. I wasn’t supposed to be walking around at that time of night, but I thought that if maybe I could just talk to him I’d be able to keep Kenma with me.”

Suga’s voice has started to shake now, his words coming faster and breath rate accelerating.

Oikawa can’t sit still anymore even as he feels struck stationary with the new revelation that there’s more than just Suga, that there are others that are like him, that they’re being kept and trained in cities just like this one.

It’s as if he’s fallen into the middle of a sci-fi movie.

He reaches out and threads his fingers with Suga’s right hand, the one that’s gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles are white.

Suga hand is warm, fluttering a little against his for a moment like some kind of bird before it settles, his fingers tightening around Oikawa’s.

Oikawa can see his chest start to rise and fall rapidly, his fingers an iron grip on Oikawa’s.

“Suga,” Oikawa says hurriedly, “you don’t have to keep going. Not if it’s too mu-”

But Suga seems to be unable to stop now that he’s started, eyes clouding over with unshed tears, and he talks over Oikawa.

“And when he wasn’t in his room, I decided to keep looking. I walked the halls until I thought I had looked everywhere, I avoided security, all because I couldn’t bear the thought of Kenma being taken away. He, the rest of them, are my family. I couldn’t-”

Suga takes a shuddering inhale, still not looking at Oikawa, eyes focused outside but as if he’s seeing something completely different than the city, gaze far-away.

His voice is scarily steady when he speaks next, soft but filled with horror.

“I was getting ready to head back. I was going to try to sleep and then talk to my teacher in the morning. And I was almost there, almost to my room, when I heard it. It was so loud. There was so much pain. So much suffering.”

Oikawa’s entire body feels like lead, dread curling dark claws into his stomach. He wants to tell Suga to stop, but it’s like his voice has disappeared, like he’s stuck listening to a nightmare but unable to wake himself up.

Suga looks like he’s living it all over again, his hand spasming in Oikawa’s, and all Oikawa can do is hold on tighter, try to ground him.

“I saw a room, the door was open. Maybe someone had forgotten to close it, maybe they were in a hurry. I looked inside even though everything was telling me not to. And there he was, just lying there. A boy who had arrived a few weeks before. I had tried talking to him during meals, but he was quiet, stubborn. Maybe I should’ve tried harder.”

Suga’s voice is so quiet now he’s almost whispering, mouth trembling, shoulders curving inwards like he’s trying to fold in on himself.

“They had him hooked up, wires everywhere, machines beeping and people talking and there were so many teachers there. The one I had been trying to find was right next to the bed. He was just standing there, writing something down. Just standing there while the boy screamed and screamed and screamed. He was in so much pain, I could feel it, I could hear it. I couldn’t move. I wanted to help, I wanted to do something, and I couldn’t move. So I just stood and watched. I just stood and watched as they continued to do whatever they were doing, as they continued to torture him, and when someone finally noticed me, I ran. I ran and told the others. I told them they had to leave, that they needed to come with me, that something was wrong.”

The first tear drops.

“We made it out somehow, all of us except for the boy I had seen, Eita. But it was too much, too fast. There were too many things happening at once and we got separated. I ran for hours, hid for a little while until they picked up on my path again, and then kept going. And then I saw this place. It was dark inside and I knew someone had to live here, but I had nowhere else to go.” 

The second tear falls, followed quickly by a third, and Oikawa feels sick to his stomach.

“I don’t know where anyone is now, if they’re safe, if they got taken back.”

Suga is fully crying now, and Oikawa wraps his free arm around Suga’s shoulders, pulling him to his chest.

He feels sickeningly guilty for asking Suga to talk about it in the first place, his head spinning with all of the new information as Suga shivers and sobs in his hold, the edge of his wristband digging into Oikawa’s forearm.

Oikawa tries to calm him down by rubbing circles into his back, something his mom always did when he was upset as a child.

In the course of a day, Oikawa’s life has been turned into something out of a movie. 

But Suga has been living this life for years, stuck in a world that is so unlike the one he was kept away from his entire life.

After a few minutes, Suga seems to calm down a little, pulling his head back from where it’d been lying against Oikawa’s shoulder.

Oikawa’s t-shirt is damp with tears.

“I understand if you want me to leave,” Suga says, voice still so paper-thin, and Oikawa is already shaking his head no.

“Me being here involves you with all of this,” Suga continues, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, but Oikawa grabs his hand again, forcing him to look up.

“I’ve already thought about all of that,” Oikawa tells him, because he has, honestly, from the very first moment that Suga had created stars in his living room.

“You found out that home had been a lie and you were separated from your family all in the same day. I know what kind of risk I’m taking, but I’m not going to kick you out. What kind of person would I be then?”

Oikawa stops talking, watching Suga look at him, constellations trapped in his eyelashes.

“Just think about it. If anything happens I can get us away. I know this city a lot better than you do,” Oikawa argues, still holding onto Suga’s hand. He glances down and then back up. “I can help you find your family.”

Suga bites his lower lip, but he doesn’t answer.

“Just think about it for a little bit,” Oikawa coaxes, letting his hand slip from Suga’s. “At least until tonight. Then you can make your decision.”

Suga is still for a second, but he finally nods.

And some people would call Oikawa crazy, or ask him why he would willingly put himself in possible danger for the sake of a stranger.

But, Oikawa thinks, as he sits there with Suga in the morning-lit kitchen, he knows what it feels like to be lost.

And he knows what it feels like to be saved.


	5. normalcy and farfalle

The rest of the day seems to pass by terribly slowly, as if someone is pouring the hours and minutes and seconds through honey, holding on and letting them trickle through the gaps in their fingers.

Everything feels like it’s holding its breath.

Oikawa just stands for a few minutes under the warm spray of the water from his shower, letting it run in rivulets over his shoulders and down his back, closing his eyes.

All he can see against the solitary darkness behind his eyelids is black on gold, tears on lashes.

_Kenma. Eita._

_…_

_Suga._

There are so many unanswered questions.

What had they been doing to that boy?

Where were the others?

How did people like Suga exist?

…

Would Suga stay?

Oikawa runs wet fingers through his hair, pushes the soaked strands away from his forehead and blinks water drops out of his eyes.

He wants to help.

He’s too involved now to consider forgetting everything and letting Suga go.

But he will.

Let Suga leave that is, if the other boy decides he needs to.

He can’t relate to Suga’s grief.

Oikawa has parents, a home with an older sister who likes to hide his beauty products and a table to eat dinner at when he goes back to visit.

He has his friends. Iwaizumi is here with him, and Makki and Mattsun may be attending school in two different cities, but Oikawa knows where they are.

But Oikawa can sympathize with Suga’s loneliness.

He’s felt it before.

That heavy, ugly emptiness in your stomach that comes with being cut off from everyone else.

That comes from cutting yourself off.

It’s surprising how substantial nothing can be.

And when Oikawa imagines Suga walking out his front door, watching him disappear into the city with that weight on his shoulders, it leaves him winded, like someone’s punched him straight in the stomach.

Oikawa watches the water swirl down the drain.

He gets out when his knee begins to ache.

"Suga-chan," Oikawa calls, slinging his towel around the back of his neck and resting an arm against the guest bedroom doorframe.

Suga is just a shape under the covers, curled up, having complained about being cold earlier before he had disappeared.

Brown eyes appear above the edge of the black bedcover at the sound of his name.

Oikawa doesn’t comment on the telltale signs that Suga has been crying, but he does offer the other a reassuring smile.

"I need to run to the grocery store on the corner," he says, rubbing one end of the towel through his hair. "I don’t have any food for dinner."

It’s almost late afternoon now, and they had finished off the pizza for a late brunch after cleaning up the apartment, so all Oikawa is left with is sickeningly sweet cereal in his kitchen.

"You should stay here," he continues, dropping his hand from his head.

He doesn’t like the idea of leaving Suga alone, but he’ll only be gone for half an hour and he knows that Suga can’t go out in public.

Suga pushes himself up further, the covers dropping to reveal the rest of his face and shoulders.

"Okay," he says, voice rough. "I can help with dinner when you get back if you’d like."

Oikawa feels a little better when those words leave Suga’s lips.

At least there’s a larger chance that Suga’s not going to leave while he’s gone if he’s offering to help with dinner.

"That’d be great," Oikawa says, laughing a little. "I’m not very good at cooking, so I probably need all of the help I can get."

Suga smiles weakly, the curve of his mouth misplaced amidst the angry red circles under his eyes and the flush on his cheeks, but it’s something, it’s there.

The small grocery store is lit by the glow of the streetlamps that have just flickered on, the sun disappearing as quickly as it came, leaving the edges of the city dark and cold, highlighted by sharp fluorescents.

Oikawa walks quickly, hands in the pockets of his black, longline coat because he had forgotten gloves before leaving, the cold still cutting through the wool sweater he has on beneath it. 

His hair is still damp, and Oikawa winces when a bright yellow cab speeds by, throwing a spray of disgusting, gray water up onto the curb.

Slipping through the automatic doors is like sliding into a warm bath, the heat from inside weaving tendrils through the chilly air just outside the shop, creating a weird interspace.

Oikawa sighs in relief, blowing on his frozen fingers before grabbing a small shopping cart and moving farther in.

He hums under his breath as he walks, trying to come up with something that’ll be fast and easy. He’s not proud of it, but cooking is very, very low on his list of skills. Between all-nighters spent hunched over textbooks and empty cups of coffee and early morning practices full of the squeak of athletic shoes across the waxed floor and sweat dripping down the side of his face, Oikawa had turned either to Akaashi’s cooking when he could get it or to takeout.

Pasta. Pasta should be easy to make, right? All you have to do is boil water and throw it in, and then dump some tomato sauce over the entire thing.

Deciding that spaghetti sounds like the best option, Oikawa turns right quickly and then left, meandering down the aisle and scanning the options.

There’s penne, farfalle, rigatoni, fettuccine, ravioli, spaghetti, conchiglie rigate.

The farfalle pasta looks entertaining, little bow ties that look like they’d go well with some marinara sauce, so Oikawa reaches up and grabs a box.

After thinking for a moment he grabs another one.

So that leaves tomato sauce. And then Oikawa can get home.

He’s trying not to focus on it too much, but he can feel the tingle of uncertainty in his fingertips, the slightest sense of being uncomfortable like an itch that he can’t reach, that comes with the knowledge that Suga is in his apartment alone.

So Oikawa swings the cart by his side and moves down the aisle to find the sauce, grabbing two glass jars of it quickly.

He grabs a gallon of soy milk because he’s low at home, a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread for breakfast in the morning, and two of those iced coffee and milk drinks, one of them decaf in case Suga wants to try, from near the cash register before looking down into his shopping cart with something akin to pride.

He really shouldn’t be so pleased with himself, but he feels oddly accomplished, as if running to the grocery to get ingredients for dinner is a feat worthy of praise.

Oikawa’s just finished paying and has stepped out of the front doors with his bags in hand when he hears someone who had been talking cut off abruptly and then call out.

"Oikawa?"

Oikawa’s head snaps up from where he had been focusing on not dropping the milk onto the sidewalk at the familiar voice, which is quickly followed by another one.

"Yep, that’s him. I’d recognize his stupid face anywhere."

For a few seconds, Oikawa is very, very confused.

Two people stand on the sidewalk, a little bit away from each other even though they’re headed in the same direction, one dressed in jeans and a hoodie, snapback fitted over dark hair, the other in dark jeans and a button-up flannel shirt, bubblegum pink hair lit up by the building lights around them.

"Makki? Mattsun?" Oikawa says, trying to wrap his head around the fact that two of his best friends are here in front of him when one should be in San Francisco and the other in Boston.

"Duh. Forgotten us already, captain?" Mattsun deadpans, sticking his hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt, and Makki grins at Oikawa, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"What-," Oikawa starts to say, but then he decides that he doesn’t care why they’re here.

He grins back, taking a few steps forward until he’s in front of them and whacks Mattsun with one of his bags.

"How could I forget that face, Mattsun?" he teases, poking said friend in the cheek even when Mattsun sends him a death glare. "It’s like I’ve come home."

"Gross, don’t be sappy," Mattsun mumbles under his breath, kicking lightly at Oikawa’s ankle.

Makki jabs Oikawa in the ribs at the same time, and then they’re all somehow hugging, laughter ringing down the street, ignoring the glances they’re getting from other people who are passing by.

When they finally separate, Oikawa’s loaf of bread considerably smushed from where it had been flattened between his and Makki’s legs, Oikawa asks, "What are you guys doing here? Don’t you have jobs over break?"

Makki shrugs, straightening out his rumpled shirt. "My boss let me have the entire break off," he says. When he tilts his head a little, Oikawa catches the glint of a new piercing in his right eyebrow, the silver stud winking at him.

Mattsun sighs. "I lost my job a few weeks ago."

Oikawa frowns at him. "I thought you hated working at that café," he says, remembering Mattsun complaining endlessly about having to work the early morning shift at the coffee shop near his apartment the last time they had talked.

Mattsun smiles a little. "I did," he answers. "I’m fucking ecstatic."

Oikawa laughs, bouncing a little on his feet to keep warm.

"And you guys decided to come visit me because you missed me so much," Oikawa guesses, not really phrasing the statement as a question.

Makki studies his nails. "No, we came to see Iwaizumi actually."

Oikawa pouts, swinging a bag at Makki’s stomach, but the other boy steps back quickly, dodging it.

"Rude," Oikawa complains half-heartedly. 

Mattsun quirks another smile.

"We actually did come to visit both of you," he explains, ignoring Oikawa’s face as his eyes light up at the admission. "We just got here this morning and we’ve booked a place to stay for the next three weeks that’s not too far from you or Iwaizumi."

"We hadn’t actually been planning on coming together," Makki interjects quickly, shooting Mattsun an unreadable look from the corner of his eye, like he’s trying to clarify something Mattsun had failed to. "But when we realized we were both headed this way Matsukawa offered to split the cost of a rental. You know, so it’s cheaper for both of us."

Oikawa almost misses the uncomfortable beat of silent that comes after Makki’s words, a pause that holds unspoken words, but he definitely doesn’t miss the pained look that flashes briefly over Mattsun’s face nor the curl of Makki’s fingers before they slip into his jean pockets.

Oikawa knows that they had called their relationship off, if that’s what you could actually call the on and off, friends with benefits scenario, a year ago, but he had never noticed any awkwardness between the two since then.

Of course, he hadn’t seen them in person in a while.

Despite the new tension hanging in the frozen air, it feels good to see his friends. It’s like a quick breath of normalcy amidst everything else.

Which reminds him…

"I have to get home," Oikawa says, breaking the silence, pretending to check the time on his nonexistent watch. "I have a night class in half an hour."

Mattsun frowns, dark eyebrows furrowing together.

"We were actually walking to your apartment," he starts, but Oikawa only surges forward and gives them both another hug as best as he can with his groceries between them before backing away.

"I promise we’ll hang out tomorrow," he calls as he moves away. "I’m really glad you guys are here."

And then he’s turning and hurrying down the street, trying not to feel too guilty.

"Did he just hug us?" 

Mattsun’s voice follows after Oikawa, full of confusion.

"Night class?" he vaguely hears Makki say next. "But it’s-"

The rest of his words fade out, lost in the honks of cars and the chatter of other people, and before Oikawa knows it, he’s already home, hurrying into his building and jabbing the elevator button for the second floor.

He’ll have to text Iwa-chan and tell him the good news, but he’s guessing Iwaizumi already knows somehow.

Walking into his apartment, Oikawa drops the bags onto the kitchen table and stretches his fingers, working out the cramps.

"Suga-chan," Oikawa calls out, slipping off his shoes at the front and hanging up his coat, turning to head back to the guest bedroom, knowing that now is when he’ll finally discover if Suga has decided to leave or not.

But his eye catches a figure curled up on his couch before he’s even finished the thought, the person seemingly asleep, illuminated by the floor lamp in the corner.

Tiptoeing over, Oikawa takes in Suga’s sleeping face, the other boy curled around a pillow and covered in the throw that Akaashi had graciously folded and put back the night before.

For the first time that day, Suga looks peaceful, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling gently, silver hair spread across the couch cushion, fingers loose and curved softly where his arms are wrapped around the pillow, hugging it to his chest.

The skin under his eyes is less red now Oikawa notices with some relief, his eyelashes brushing against that unforgettable beauty mark at the corner of his eye, and Oikawa watches as Suga shifts a little, eyebrows furrowing slightly before he relaxes again.

Deciding to stop being creepy, Oikawa adjusts the blanket a little more over Suga’s shoulders and then heads back to the kitchen.

He knows that Suga may be upset that he didn’t get to help with dinner, but Oikawa’s not going to wake him.

Besides, he’s just making pasta.

How hard could it be?

"Shit, shit, shit," Oikawa hisses under his breath, trying to wrench the boiling pot of pasta off of the stove without burning himself.

It’s overflowing, the water bubbling out of the top and the pasta bobbing crazily amidst the chaos, and Oikawa is this close to screaming.

He’s amazed that Suga hasn’t actually woken up throughout the entire fiasco that had started as soon as he had opened the damn box of farfalle.

In the time since then Oikawa’s dropped the cooking pot and barely avoided it crushing his foot, gotten marinara sauce on the front of his gray sweater, and now this.

He’s pretty sure he’s doing something wrong. Cooking should not be this frustrating.

Cursing under his breath, Oikawa grabs a dishtowel and gingerly grabs the pot, sliding it forward until it’s off of the burner.

He turns down the heat quickly, hot steam stinging the soft skin of his forearm where he’s rolled up his sleeves.

"Stupid farfalle," he mumbles grumpily, wiping up the water that’s spilled all over the top of his stove. "Stupid pasta."

"I don’t think talking to your food is going to help."

Oikawa whirls around, dropping the dishtowel to the floor.

Suga stands next to the bar, rubbing at his eye with one hand, looking far too amused at Oikawa’s struggle.

He’s sleep-rumpled, hair sticking out at weird angles, eyes soft, shirt wrinkled.

Oikawa flushes a little in embarrassment, bending to pick up the dishtowel.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up," he says, turning back to the mess on the stove.

"I told you I’d help," Suga responds, his voice getting closer. "And I think I’ve slept enough for the next couple of days."

Oikawa feels a nudge at his hip and then Suga is standing next to him, peering at the pasta curiously.

Oikawa side-eyes him, noticing their significant height difference and feeling unnaturally embarrassed when Suga tries to stifle a smile and fails.

"Here, I’ll fix this," he says, gesturing to the little pieces of pasta scattered across the stove and the half-empty pot of water. "You can deal with the sauce."

Oikawa wants to argue that he can do more than just manage the sauce, but Suga’s eyes are bright and he’s holding his mouth in a way that says he’s probably trying not to outright laugh, so Oikawa doesn’t, swallowing his pride and enjoying the lightheartedness on Suga’s face.

Suga refills the pot with water and turns it on a not-so-high temperature, scooping up the fallen pasta and throwing it in as well.

"Do you have salt?" he asks Oikawa, brushing his bangs from his eyes.

Oikawa nods, rummaging for a few minutes before he finds it and hands it to Suga with an exaggerated bow and wink and "Yes, chef", to which Suga actually giggles.

Oikawa feels proud of himself for the second time that day.

As soon as the pasta is cooked, Suga strains it in the sink and then turns to Oikawa.

"You’re up, Mr. Stupid Pasta," he says, and Oikawa is taken aback for a moment by the teasing glint in his eyes.

He quickly recovers, pressing a palm flat to his chest in mock betrayal and giving Suga a wounded expression.

"Are you mocking me, Suga-chan?" he asks, grabbing the marinara sauce and unscrewing the cap.

He lightly bumps the other out of the way with his hip, Suga raising a hand to his mouth to cover a grin, and flourishes the glass jar above the pasta.

"I’ll have you know," Oikawa continues, trying to keep a straight face and a serious tone, "that I am a master at sauce-pouring. I had to train for many years and fight through many obstacles, but I now hold the title of Supreme Leader Oikawa, Master of the Marinara."

He proceeds to dump all of the sauce over the pasta and Suga makes a garbled noise that’s a mix between laughter and alarm, grabbing the tomato sauce from Oikawa’s hand.

"Not all of it, Master of the Marinara," he chokes out, cheeks flushed probably from the heat of the stove, but also a little from laughing.

Oikawa grins down at him, taking in the way the corners of Suga’s eyes crinkle and his ridiculous bedhead.

He knows that tomorrow Suga will either go or stay.

But for tonight, for right now, as Suga laughs and pushes him out of the way, Oikawa is content to forget about that and just be here.


	6. black holes and starless puddles

_He doesn’t want to go._

_Everything about this feels wrong, like a fist slowly closing around his stomach, squeezing until he can’t breathe._

_Suga fiddles with his bracelet, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth until he can taste copper on his tongue, staring out the window and fighting with himself._

_But he already knows his decision._

_He can’t risk the safety of anyone else, especially not someone like Oikawa who’s been so kind and understanding, who’s given him a place to stay, who’s kept him safe, and who’s managed to somehow lift some of the heaviness from his shoulders where it’s been slowly suffocating him for the past few days._

_Suga feels like a criminal, sneaking around and grabbing his old clothes, which are clean now, changing and folding Oikawa’s borrowed pants and shirt and leaving them on the edge of the made bed._

_He feels guilty and sick and heavy, like there’s lead instead of blood moving through his veins, pulling him down, down, down._

_The entire time his heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest._

_He thinks while he ties his shoelaces, unable to stop images from flashing through his mind’s eye._

_Running down sleek, white hallways, shoes squeaking against the waxed floor, tears hot against the backs of his eyelids, Eita’s screams in his ears._

_Kenma waking up slowly and then all at once, his eyes growing wide with fear as Suga shook his shoulder._

_Yamaguchi, Kunimi, Yahaba, Shirabu, all of them standing confused and half-awake until Suga had frantically explained what he had seen to them._

_No one had wanted to believe it until a security guard had shown up, black uniform and metallic baton, a teacher Suga recognized right behind him, her fingers wrapped around a syringe full of crystal blue liquid, eyes full of something Suga didn’t want to see, something he couldn’t understand._

_The flashbacks start to get choppier as Suga stands up in the dark apartment, tiptoeing back towards Oikawa’s bedroom._

_Yahaba, making the first move, punching the guard in the face._

_Kunimi and Shirabu quickly jumping in to help, Suga wrapping an arm around Kenma’s shoulders and pulling, Yamaguchi on his other side._

_Running, running, running._

_Red lights and deafening sirens._

_Shouting._

_A back door no one was watching, then cool air, rain on their faces._

_A dead sprint across wet grass, slipping, sliding, careening into a chain-link fence._

_Kenma stopping, crying, the tears rolling down his face as he sobbed, asking Suga why they had to leave, why, he didn’t understand, he didn’t want to leave, why Suga why._

_He had been the most reluctant to clamber over to the other side and keep going, pushing Yamaguchi away when the other had tried to comfort him once he was on the ground again._

_More running, labored breaths ripping from their lungs, hearts pounding in their ears, unsure of which way to go, where to turn._

_And then noise and lights and people, more than any of them were used to._

_Suga should have held on tighter, should’ve kept Kenma closer, should’ve told the others to wait, to follow him._

_In the space of one breath and the next, they had lost each other._

_And Suga was alone._

_Suga sucks in a tight breath, jerking back to the present._

_He hovers outside of Oikawa’s bedroom door, uncertainty making his palms damp, guilt wrapping around his ribcage like some kind of poisonous plant._

_He pushes it open slowly, slowly, peering in, eyes already adjusted to the dark._

_Oikawa is sprawled on his back, one leg sticking out from under the bedcover, socked foot dangling over the edge of the bed, his normally styled hair now a mess around his face._

_Suga smiles a little past the tightening of his throat, listening to the snoring that fills the room, lingering before he pulls back into the hallway, closing the door again, the smile fading away, his hand still on the doorknob._

_He doesn’t want to go. He wants to take his shoes off and crawl back into the warmth of the bed he’s been borrowing for the past night and a half, wants to wake up in the morning and agree to let Oikawa help him, wants to stay here where he feels safe._

_But Oikawa doesn’t deserve that. Suga can’t be that selfish._

_So he grabs a slip of paper and a pen from the kitchen bar and writes quickly, leaving it there when he’s done._

_He goes the way he came in that night, covered in mud and panting, terrified, closing the window once he’s outside, leaving one last lingering look._

_And then he’s gone._

Oikawa can’t think.

Every possible thought that he could be having right now is lost in the chaotic buzz filling his head, everything train-wrecked, sucker punched and dazed.

Suga’s gone.

As in disappeared, vanished, missing.

As in Oikawa can feel the emptiness, can feel how ephemeral Suga’s presence had been, like the flash of a shooting star.

The note he had found on the kitchen counter just a few minutes before is crumpled in his fist.

Oikawa slowly relaxes his hold, smooths out the creases, lets his eyes run over the hastily scrawled words for the third time.

_Dear Oikawa,_

_I’m sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. I promise I thought about staying, but I can’t involve you in my problems anymore than I already have. Thank you for everything. I’ll never be able to repay you._

_Please don’t try looking for me._

_Suga_

Oikawa runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm his pounding heart.

He had known that this was a possibility, that Suga could leave if he decided to.

He just hadn’t expected it to happen like this, with Suga disappearing in the middle of the night, with Oikawa waking up to find a neatly made guest bed and his clothes folded and no sign that Suga had even been there in the first place besides the words in his hand.

Without Oikawa having the chance to say goodbye.

There’s an emptiness just under his ribs, a void, a black hole, and Oikawa doesn’t know what to do.

His first instinct is to throw on his coat and his shoes and go after Suga, run through the streets trying to spot that unusual silver hair or those brown eyes that sometimes shimmered gold in the sunlight.

But New York City is too big, too full of people.

His second wild thought is to call Iwaizumi.

But Iwaizumi doesn’t know about Suga, and he’s not supposed to. 

Oikawa groans in frustration, closing his eyes and struggling to think, to come up with some way to find Suga.

It’s no use, and it hurts, his chest aches.

How can someone he’d barely known for one day have this big of an impact just by leaving?

Oikawa doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care if he never figures out the answer.

"Shit," he mutters, tossing the note across the room and putting his head in his hands.

The note is scooped from the ground a few minutes later right before Oikawa leaves his apartment, shoes pounding against the stairs as he runs down them, the sound just as loud and fast as the beat of his heart.

"Yo, earth to Oikawa!"

Oikawa jerks in his seat when someone’s hand lands on his shoulder, a voice insistently close to his ear.

Makki is staring down at him, semi-irritated and semi-concerned, and Oikawa straightens in his seat from where he’d been half-slumped over the table in front of him.

"Sorry, I was daydreaming," he lies, plastering on a smile that feels thin enough to shatter if he so much as breathes too hard.

Makki removes his hand, still frowning, the annoyance melting off of his face to leave only worry, and Oikawa looks away from the questions in his friend’s eyes.

"I just asked if you wanted soup dumplings like the rest of us or if you wanted me to get you something else," Makki says after a beat of silence, glancing over his shoulder to where Mattsun is waiting in line.

"Soup dumplings are fine, thanks," Oikawa says, scratching a fingernail over a small mark in the black wood of the tabletop.

He can feel Makki lingering by his elbow, the other boy silent but obviously about to say something else that Oikawa doesn’t want to answer, so he looks up again, putting more effort behind trying to look nonchalant, smile a little bigger, shoulders more relaxed.

It’s a familiar act.

"Iwa-chan said he’ll be here soon, and that he’s bringing Kaash-chan with him," he says, ",so you’d better make that three more orders of soup dumplings."

His words have the intended effect. Makki groans and mutters something about losing bets and how he’s going to be broke before this break is over before he returns to the line.

Oikawa sighs in relief, leaning his head back against the booth he’s in, eyes taking in the restaurant even though he’s been here thousands of times before.

It’s one of his favorites, a small place called Shanghai Asian Manor, inside the outer edge of Chinatown.

Inside it’s close and cozy, traces of cardamom and cinnamon lingering in the air, everything from cold noodles with sesame sauce to chicken in hot pepper sauce to their famous soup dumplings coming out of the kitchen and to customers who are either happy, hungover, or both.

It’s pretty crowded tonight, as it usually is on a Friday night, but Oikawa had managed to get them seated at a booth right by the window.

He rubs his thumb over the splintered wood, letting the exhaustion spread from where it’s pushing against the backs of his eyes to rest heavy on his shoulders.

Even now, even a week later, Oikawa is still looking.

Every time he sees the flash of silver, every time he glimpses a boy with Suga’s height, every time he glances up and meets brown eyes, his heart skips a beat, hope crashes into him like a wave, his breath catches in his throat.

And every time it turns out to be a complete stranger Oikawa feels like he’s been jerked back down to Earth, yanked back from the sky, each time more painful than the last.

_Please don’t try looking for me._

Oikawa slips a hand into his coat pocket, lets the tips of his fingers brush over the folded note, feels the indents from how hard Suga must have pressed the pen to the paper, feels the creases from how many times he’s crumpled it and unfolded it and crumpled it again.

He can recite the short message without even thinking about it, the words burned into the backs of his eyelids.

Outside the window, people rush to and from, caught in the light rain that’s covered the city for the entire day, smudging the edges of the buildings and turning the warm lights outside of the shop watery, leaving puddles that reflect a starless night sky on the sidewalks and roads.

Oikawa spots Iwaizumi and Akaashi as they walk in, fingers intertwined and deep in conversation, and he turns his face back towards the window before they can catch him looking in their direction.

For a split second, his eyes catch what looks like a familiar smile, the flash of teeth in the rain sending a bolt of lightning up his spine, and he’s halfway up, halfway out of his seat, lips parted on a name, before he can stop himself.

And then the boy turns to the girl beside him, laughs at something she said, twirls his umbrella above them, and Oikawa wonders how he could’ve mistaken that smile for his.

The nights are the worst.

When he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep, trying not to think because then the panic will set in, the questions will fill his head and he won’t be able to answer any of them.

_“I don’t know where anyone is now, if they’re safe, if they got taken back.”_

When he looks outside and sees how cold it is, how everyone’s breath fogs in the frozen air, diaphanous and glittering.

_"Other children came and went, but there were those of us who stayed over the years, and we stuck together. I was happy.”_

When he watches the nightly news, watching, watching, looking for anything unusual, anything that could be connected to what little information Suga had told him.

_"The outside world wouldn’t be able to handle what we could do. Our parents hadn’t been able to, so how would everyone else? Beautiful but dangerous.”_

Oikawa sighs, dispersing his thoughts, and sets his cup of tea down on the coffee table, curling farther into the couch cushions, Iwaizumi’s copy of Godzilla playing on the tv.

His phone buzzes with a text, Oikawa glancing down and to the right to see Iwaizumi’s number, but he ignores it.

Iwaizumi has been asking more questions since they had dinner at Shanghai Asian Manor a few nights ago, getting closer, able to sense more than the others that something’s wrong.

Oikawa hates it.

He hates how helpless he feels, unable to know whether Suga is sleeping somewhere warm or eating or if he’s found any of the people he lost or if he’s already been found himself and taken back to a facility that could literally be anywhere in this city.

He hates that he’s making his friends worry, that he’s the reason they shoot each other silent glances full of concern, that he’s the reason Iwaizumi has been texting him non-stop for the past few hours.

He hates the endless cycle of hope and despair whenever he thinks he sees Suga on the street.

He hates feeling cut off again, cut off from Suga, cut off from his friends because he can’t tell them anything, can’t ask them what to do.

And he hates knowing that eventually, inevitably, he’ll have to move on.


	7. crows and amethyst

Snow drifts down soft and quiet, muffling noises, sparkling in the light from the street lamps, and Oikawa blinks snowflakes from his lashes.

As soon as he steps into the café, the snow in his hair and on his clothes melts, a cold trickle of water dripping down the back of his neck, and he shivers, wiping his boots off on the mat by the front door.

"Hello, welcome to Crow’s Coffee," a kind-looking man with warm brown eyes and black hair greets him when Oikawa steps up to the counter. "What can I make for you today?"

_"Sawamura Daichi,"_ Oikawa reads on the guy’s name-tag before he orders and pays.

He thanks the guy as soon as his coffee is done, retreating to an armchair squished in the back of the shop, right next to the roaring fireplace.

It’s an interesting place, and Oikawa wonders why he’s never ventured over even though it’s just across the street from his apartment.

Plants hang in wire baskets that are attached to the ceiling right above where the two baristas, including the one who helped Oikawa, work, vivid green vines sprouting out of some of the pots and tangling around the wires delicately or dangling down farther, close enough to reach up and grab one.

The space is full of tables and quite a few armchairs, the stone fireplace taking up most of the back wall.

Oikawa takes a sip of his coffee, sighing quietly when the warmth almost immediately spreads to the tips of his fingers, and glances up, choking a little on the caffeine at the sight that greets him.

Someone’s painted the ceiling like a night sky using colors that are too beautiful to describe, the entire thing full of thousands of glittering stars, and as Oikawa looks closer, he can make out crows, their black wings spread in flight, an invisible wind ruffling their feathers.

It’s amazing and beautiful and it’s clearly obvious that whoever did it is talented.

"Pretty good, huh?" a voice says from nearby, and Oikawa’s head snaps back down to see the other barista, the taller one with spiky, jet-black hair and cat-like eyes who had been drizzling caramel over a latte earlier, standing nearby, wielding a dishtowel and grinning smugly.

Oikawa clears his throat, sneaking another glance at the art before he nods, watching the barista begin to wipe down a table.

There aren’t many other people in the café at this hour on a Wednesday night, just a girl whose black braid curves long enough to drape over her right shoulder, her black nails tapping a soft rhythm out on the tabletop as she listens to something through her earphones and texts a friend, gold nose ring flashing like a spark, and a man with a leather-bound book in one hand, the fingers of his free hand wrapped around the handle of his mug, steam swirling gracefully into the air, but they’re both far away enough to not be bothered by the conversation unfurling in the back.

"I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it," Oikawa answers, taking another sip of his coffee and loosening his scarf, the fire’s heat soaking into his clothes and hovering over his skin.

The barista, whose name-tag reads _"Kuroo Tetsurou"_ when he gets closer, moving on to the next table, hums in agreement, gold eyes peering up at the stars and the crows.

"I have a friend who’d love-," Oikawa starts before he remembers, the only thought in his head being what Suga’s face would look like if he could see the stars here, what he would say, eyes lit up with excitement.

But reality hits him quickly, painfully, and Oikawa snaps his mouth shut before he can finish his sentence, ignoring Kuroo’s curious stare.

Oikawa takes another drink of coffee before asking, "Did you paint it?"

Kuroo’s questioning glance turns quickly to one of amusement, the barista immediately laughing, or more like cackling, the sound loud enough to get the attention of the girl even through her headphones because she turns in their direction, eyes that are decorated with black, winged eyeliner narrowing at Kuroo, and he waves his dishtowel in her direction.

"Sorry, Kash," he calls, the girl rolling her eyes and turning back around.

"Don’t worry, she’s a regular. She wouldn’t survive if we stopped selling her 'required-to-live lavender-honey lattes'," Kuroo explains, turning back around to Oikawa, putting air quotes around the last six words.

Oikawa isn’t sure what to say to that, but Kuroo plunges ahead, more words already leaving his mouth before Oikawa can respond.

"I don’t have an artistic bone in my body," he says, still grinning even as he wipes down the next table. "I am a man of many other talents, but any paintings I ever did could probably be replicated by a two-year-old."

Oikawa huffs out a laugh, the first genuine one that’s come from his mouth in days, and Kuroo keeps talking.

"No, I wasn’t here when this was done. Daichi, the other barista over there, his parents own this place and he’s taken over after they retired last year, moved from the city to somewhere warmer. I decided that as his honorable best friend I should help out since this place is too big for one person and since I practically lived with them all through college."

Kuroo pauses for a second to wipe at a particularly large coffee stain before continuing.

"Anyways, all of that is just useless background information to you. I was off this last weekend, and this ceiling had been blank last Friday, but Daichi said some kid came by Friday night while he was closing up with some art pieces he had done, told Daichi that he could do the ceiling for a cheap price. I would’ve said no because it sounded like a scam at first, but Daichi told me the kid looked desperate for cash, so he decided to let him do it. And boom," Kuroo finishes, waving an arm at the art, "this was done by Monday."

Oikawa squints at Kuroo, trying to judge if he’s pulling some elaborate joke because Kuroo seems like the type of person who would spray PAM on the kitchen floor and then laugh when you broke your nose face-planting, but Kuroo doesn’t show any signs that he’s not being serious.

"Huh," Oikawa says, very impressed. "How much did he charge?"

Kuroo’s eyebrows furrow as he thinks, and he turns towards the front.

"Hey, Sawamura," he shouts, ignoring Kash when she bangs her forehead against the table in exasperation, "how much did you pay for this?"

Kuroo points up at the ceiling, and Daichi moves out from behind the counter, no new customers to take care of, walking back towards them.

"Umm, just a hundred," he says once he’s close enough to not have to yell to be heard. "I wanted to give the boy who painted it more, but he refused to take anything over that price."

"And it only took him two days, right?" Kuroo asks, Oikawa nodding at Daichi in a greeting as the other smiles at him.

"Actually, I think it took him one," Daichi says, looking up at the ceiling and rubbing the back of his neck. "He wouldn’t let me see it until he was done. Said he had to be alone to be able to paint, that anyone watching him made him nervous."

Oikawa looks up at the night sky again, looks at the detail that’s been put into it, and wonders if the boy they’re talking about is some kind of prodigy.

"Dude, he could’ve stolen cash from the register since you weren’t in the room," Kuroo admonishes in a low voice, and Daichi rolls his eyes.

"I didn’t have that much in there that day to begin with, and he didn’t, I checked."

Kuroo whips Daichi with the dishtowel, smirking when the other yelps and jumps back, throwing Kuroo a glare before he turns to Oikawa, the bell above the door jingling as another person walks in.

"I have to get back over there," he says, gesturing to the front, "but it was nice meeting you…"

"Oikawa Tooru," Oikawa supplies, shaking Daichi’s offered hand. It’s warm and dry, and Oikawa can smell cinnamon and cloves. "It was nice meeting you too."

Daichi turns to Kuroo, snatching the dishtowel from his friend’s hand and waving it threateningly.

"And you," he says, mock serious, "you’d better not scare away all of the customers."

"Scare them away?" Kuroo asks with fake disbelief. He holds a hand over his heart, the other arm extending to his side, palm up. "My dear Sawamura, I’m the reason we have customers. They come from all over the city just to witness this face that has been created by the-"

Daichi snaps the towel against Kuroo’s thigh in one quick move and walks away, leaving Kuroo hissing in pain, the rest of his words forgotten.

"Well, I’ll leave you to your coffee then, Oikawa Tooru," Kuroo says, sighing and also shaking Oikawa’s hand. "I should probably get back to work."

Oikawa watches Kuroo head back towards the counter, saying something to the new customer that causes Daichi to shake his head in exasperation and bump Kuroo out of the way with his hip, turning to laugh at Kuroo’s pouty expression when the customer moves to sit at a table.

Oikawa averts his eyes, shrugging out of his coat and snuggling farther back into the armchair.

He spends the rest of the time finishing his coffee trying not to think about farfalle or ruffled silver hair or eyes warm with laughter and fails.

The walk home is short, and Oikawa’s entire reason for going to Crow’s Coffee was to get out of his quiet apartment, so he decides to walk down the block and circle back around once he leaves the warmth of the café.

The street is pretty deserted, a few people here and there, the snow falling faster now, covering everything in white, and Oikawa watches his sneakers push into the powdery softness as he walks, kicking it up every now and then just to watch it shimmer in the air.

His breath fogs out in front of him until he pulls his scarf up and over his nose, pulling his coat closer and shivering.

The cold helps his mind go blank, think of nothing but how the tips of his shoes are growing damp, water soaking into his socks, how his nose is cold enough to be numb, how he can still taste coffee when he licks his chapped lips.

There’s no wind, the snowflakes dropping straight down, making it hard to see very far ahead, but there’s the bright red of a neon streetlight there to his left, the twin white lights of someone’s headlights farther down the street, more colors farther away where the residential apartments fade into shops and restaurants, acid greens and shimmering golds and electric blues.

After ten minutes, Oikawa grows cold enough to turn around despite his reluctance to return home.

It feels so empty there now, and it’s ironic because Oikawa’s lived there for nearly two years by himself, has never had a roommate, has always had a spare guest room with a bed no one slept in unless one of his friends needed a place to crash for the night, and yet, up until now, he’s never been so aware of the extra space like he has for the past week and a half.

Even so, Oikawa can’t stay out here forever, so he clenches his jaw together to keep his teeth from chattering and trudges back the way he came, the footsteps he had left earlier already covered and gone, as if he had never been there.

Subconsciously, Oikawa’s hand drifts to his pocket, curls around a slip of paper that he should’ve thrown out a week and a half ago.

The elevator is too cramped for Oikawa’s current mood so he decides to take the stairs, dripping water all over the floor as he walks up the two flights, not pausing even when the dull ache in his knee grows sharper, radiating up to his hip.

He’s beginning to regain feeling in his limbs by the time he reaches his floor, peeling his gloves off and tugging his scarf away from his neck, and he gets so engrossed in untangling it from beneath the collar of his coat that he doesn’t notice the person there, sitting in front of his apartment door, until he’s only a foot away.

At first, Oikawa feels like he’s dreaming, like if he blinks the boy will disappear, disperse into smoke, until Oikawa will only be able to see the shimmer of his eyes and the glint of his hair until those things vanish as well.

But nothing like that happens as Oikawa chokes on the air in his lungs, as his heart beats furiously against his ribcage.

And then Oikawa wonders if the universe is playing some cruel, elaborate joke on him because Suga isn’t _moving_ , his eyes closed as his body slumps against the bottom-half of Oikawa’s front door, frighteningly still and incredibly pale and why isn’t he moving?

Oikawa’s feet carry him forward as fast as he can move, and then he’s on his knees, wincing when they hit the hard floor as he drops, but the pain pales in comparison to the fear Oikawa can taste, coppery and sharp, on the back of his tongue as he flutters hands around Suga’s face, chest, arms, frantic to figure out what’s wrong.

He presses two fingers to the side of Suga’s neck, feels how ice cold his skin is, as if Suga has been lying underneath the snow outside, pressed to the frozen pavement, snowflakes caught in his hair.

And it’s like there’s a siren going off in his head, loud and ear-shattering, as he prays to feel a pulse, the smallest whisper of a breath when he raises his other hand to cradle the curve of Suga’s jaw, propping his head up when it lolls to the side.

"Suga," Oikawa says, his voice high-pitched and shrilly to his own ears, full of panic. "Koushi, come on, wake up."

As if he can hear him, Suga suddenly inhales sharply, breath shuddering through his body, eyes fluttering open, and Oikawa almost cries out in relief.

Suga’s mouth moves as his eyes focus, but no sound comes out, and he clears his throat, coughing.

"Oikawa," he rasps, body jerking as he fully resurfaces to consciousness, hands scrabbling at Oikawa’s coat sleeves.

"Shit," Oikawa curses, eyes scanning Suga’s body for any signs of injuries, but there’s no blood, nothing except a small scratch on Suga’s right cheek and badly bruised knuckles on his right hand.

There’s no time to ask questions, not out here in the open at least, where anyone could be listening, so Oikawa gingerly slides his arms under Suga’s, lifting him until he’s on his feet.

Already, Oikawa can feel how thin Suga is, picking him up and feeling a sliver of relief when he realizes that Suga can walk, that nothing’s broken.

Fumbling in his coat pocket for his key, Oikawa shifts Suga to the crook of one arm, letting him lean against his side heavily, feels Suga breathe unevenly, shivering, and finally manages to get his door open, kicking it with one shoe.

They stumble inside, Oikawa not bothering to take his shoes off as he half-carries, half-drags Suga to the bathroom, locking the door quickly behind them.

Suga doesn’t have any wounds that Oikawa can see, but he’s frighteningly cold, all of the color sucked out of him, and his eyelashes are startlingly black against the white of his skin, like ink on paper.

Warm, Oikawa needs to get him warm.

Suga is wearing the same clothes he had shown up in that night he had crawled through Oikawa’s window, black sweatpants and a grey t-shirt, but he’s also wearing a coat and scarf that he’s gotten from somewhere.

Oikawa lowers him gently to the floor, murmuring words that he can’t hear over the rush of blood in his ears, but he hopes they’re comforting.

His fingers slide against the faucet in the bathtub, turning it to hot, letting the water fill the tub almost to the top before he turns it off.

He pulls the scarf off and then slides Suga’s arms out of the coat, tugging it off and throwing it to the side, slipping off Suga’s shoes and socks next, his own hands shaking.

He’s not sure how Suga would feel about anything more coming off, and the other seems incapable of speech, falling in and out of consciousness, so he leaves him in the sweatpants and t-shirt, lifting him up with an arm under his knees and one around his lower back, and lowers him slowly into the bathtub.

The water shifts around him, a little spilling onto the floor.

For a few minutes, Oikawa holds Suga upright, the lower halves of his sleeves soaked through with water, the edge of the tub digging into his stomach, crouched on his knees, and after a while Suga’s shivering slows down, his breathing evening out.

Oikawa watches his face, waits for Suga’s eyes to open fully, sees the exhaustion in his face, the dark circles under his eyes, feels incredulous because Suga’s actually here.

Suga stares back for a second, the bathroom silent besides the slosh of water when Suga shifts against Oikawa’s arm, eyes darker than usual, the brown now a dark gold.

He licks his lips, dry and chapped, looks down at his clothes, plastered to his skin, the edges of his collarbones visible above the collar of his shirt, looks back up at Oikawa, whose eyes haven’t left his face.

"I’m sorry," Suga says, voice still weak, papery-thin, but at least some color is returning to his face, a flush covering his cheeks, lips not as blue as they had been before.

He’s alive and talking and here, and Oikawa doesn’t know what to say.

All he can do is curve his fingers tighter around Suga’s side, feel the ridge of his ribcage beneath his t-shirt, watch the curl of his hair against his temple, sticking to his skin with the steam rising from the bath, feel his back rise and fall as he breathes.

"I understand why you left," Oikawa finally gets out, shifting on the floor to alleviate some of the pressure on his right knee.

"No," Suga breathes, closing his eyes. "I’m sorry for coming back when I told myself I wouldn’t. I could’ve led them here, they could’ve hurt you."

"But they didn’t," Oikawa argues immediately, grabbing the hand that Suga lifts to curl around the lip of the tub, as if he’s going to hoist himself up.

Suga pulls his hand away quickly, and it hurts, a little, no, a lot, somewhere in Oikawa’s chest.

"I shouldn’t have come back," Suga continues, eyes opening again to look at Oikawa. "But I didn’t know where else to go. I’ll just stay until I gather my strength again, and then I’ll-"

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

Ah, there it is. Oikawa can hear it in his voice, the words coming out sharp and painful, like shards of glass in his throat. All of the fear, all of the frustration, all of the sleepless nights and ignored text messages and that horrible, horrible pit of hopelessness in Oikawa’s stomach that never seemed to go away.

Suga must be able to hear it too because a fleeting look of surprise and guilt passes over his face, eyes flickering away from Oikawa’s for a second.

"I’m not going to apologize for leaving," he says, voice firm despite his condition, eyes flashing with something Oikawa has seen before.

"I don’t expect you to," Oikawa replies, still holding Suga up. "But what I’m trying to tell you is that I don’t want you to leave again, even if you feel like it’s dangerous."

And now Oikawa understands, thinks he has known even before now, the answer to that question he had asked himself before.

Why?

Why do all of this? Why involve himself?

Some would answer because it’s the right thing to do, to help out someone in need, but Suga isn’t asking him to, isn’t asking for his help. And Oikawa could still help him with a more detached approach, one that would still give him the sense of being a good person, but that wouldn’t entangle him so much in Suga’s problems, that would pose less of a risk.

Part of Oikawa’s determination to keep Suga here is out of the kindness of his heart because, despite his sometimes arrogant personality, he’s not the type of person to turn a blind eye to someone in trouble. But there’s more to it than that.

It sounds cliche, a line Oikawa would regard with scrutiny, would flinch from if he heard it in a movie or read it in a book, but it’s almost as if he sees a little bit of himself, and a little bit of who he used to be, in Suga.

The unwavering determination, the relentless resolve to deal with his problems on his own, the tenacious loyalty to the people he loves.

It’s the second characteristic that Oikawa wants to rid Suga of because it’s dangerous, an illusion that hides thorns.

He’d been there once, isolated and thinking he was stronger because of it when in reality he had only been dragging himself deeper into a void, one that was hard to crawl out of.

He wants to be the one holding his hand out this time, reaching to help someone else.

Suga stares at him, and once again, Oikawa feels like he’s being studied, just like last time, Suga’s eyes calculating, the way Oikawa imagines his own look when he’s running plays through his head on the court.

He lets his heartbeat even out, ignores the pain in his knee, returns Suga’s stare with one of his own, the one he mostly reserves for when he’s facing someone on the other side of a net, chin tilted up, eyes sharp, but it’s not full of the usual provocation and there’s no accompanying smirk because this is Suga, not someone he’s looking to intimidate.

His only goal right now is to convince Suga to stay.

"They won’t stop looking for me," Suga says finally, voice wavering, like he’s on the verge of tears even though his eyes are dry.

"I know."

"They’ll take you too, if they find me," Suga continues, voice a little quieter, still just as wobbly.

"Yeah," Oikawa answers, knowing they will because he knows too much, has seen too much.

"You-," Suga tries, whispering, but he can’t seem to get the rest of the words out, eyes finally shining with more than just the reflection of the bath water.

"This is my own decision," Oikawa says, eyes glancing down to where Suga’s fingers are digging into his thighs, the bruised knuckles of his right hand just visible under the surface of the water, blooms of amethyst painted across his skin. "You tried doing this on your own once, and it brought you back here, so now I’m asking to help."

Suga is silent, blinking back tears that are threatening to fall, and the tension in the tiny bathroom is overwhelming, mixing with the steam from the bath, pushing down on all sides, so Oikawa lets himself crack a smile.

"Besides, who’s going to protect me if you’re not here to blast all of the bad guys with your amazing star-bending?" he asks.

Suga laughs abruptly, a small hiccup, the smile Oikawa thought he saw half a million times on the street this past week and a half finally in front of him again, and lifts a hand out of the water to push at Oikawa with wet fingers. Oikawa catches his hand, careful not to press against the bruises, still supporting Suga with his other arm.

"Star-bending?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, and Oikawa grins even as he says in mock exasperation, "Really, Suga-chan? First aliens, and now you’re telling me you don’t know what star-bending is?"

Suga wiggles his fingers out of Oikawa’s grasp and pokes him in the side in retaliation. "Shut up."

"It’s not actually a thing," Oikawa admits, Suga laughing again and dropping his hand back down into the bath, his eyes thankfully dry now.

The action sends a splash of water up and out of the tub, which hits Oikawa in the face, and he jerks back in surprise, wiping at the wetness with a sleeve before pinning Suga with an accusatory look.

"That was an accident," Suga says, already scooting to the far side of the bathtub, but Oikawa still has an arm wrapped around his back, and he doesn’t get far.

"It didn’t look like an accident," Oikawa teases, ignoring Suga’s laugh-filled, "Oikawa, don’t-" before he scoops a handful of water up with his free hand and tosses it at Suga’s face.

Suga sputters, water droplets sticking to his eyelashes and dripping down from his hair, and blinks rapidly, wiping the water off of his face with his hands, before focusing his gaze on Oikawa, who’s grinning wickedly.

"You asked for it," Suga warns, mouth curving dangerously, and then he’s splashing water with both hands out of the tub at Oikawa.

Oikawa hopes they’re not disturbing his neighbors, what with Suga laughing louder than Oikawa’s heard him laugh before, and Oikawa shrieking for mercy because, "Suga-chan, that’s not fair! You were already wet and do you know how long it takes to make my hair look this perfect?", but he doesn’t care if they are.

It ends with water all over the bathroom floor and Suga grinning victoriously, still sitting in the tub, while Oikawa stands cowering by the bathroom door, both of them drenched and breathless.

But Oikawa still has to know, so he flips his wet bangs out of his face, pushing them back from his forehead, and takes the few steps forward to reach the tub.

He holds a hand down, palm open, towards Suga, knows that Suga realizes what he’s asking without actually saying the words when the other’s grin fades into something more serious, the two of them watching each other carefully.

Oikawa waits. Waits to see if Suga will take his hand or if he’ll push himself up.

Suga blinks once, twice, eyes flashing with a million choices.

And then he picks one.

Oikawa feels the warm slide of Suga’s fingers against his own more than he sees it, feels the soft skin of Suga’s palm against the callouses on his own hand, feels the comforting beat of his pulse at his wrist and counts it to reassure himself that it’s real.

And then he pulls.


	8. ink and saccharine sweetness

The next few days pass by quickly, rushing through time like the subways do under the streets of the city, hidden by concrete and steel, passing by in a flurry of wind and noise.

It’s been two mornings since Suga had needed Oikawa’s help getting out of the tub, sitting on the edge of it while Oikawa had towel dried his hair and wiped down his arms, borrowing a pair of pajamas afterwards and immediately falling asleep in the guest bed as if he had never left.

Two mornings since Oikawa had stayed up until he couldn’t keep his eyes from dropping closed, clutching a mug of coffee and curled up on the couch, still unable to fully believe that Suga was back.

Two mornings since Oikawa had fallen asleep in the living room and had woken with a crick in his neck and to Suga sleeping in the armchair, the other having moved there sometime in the middle of the night, as if he had been driven there by the need to be near another person.

Suga had told him about what had happened after he had left Oikawa’s apartment, the days of searching the streets for anything that might point him in the right direction, ducking into shadowed alleyways and shops whenever he felt like someone was staring for too long or if he heard a particularly loud noise.

There had been no trace of any of the people he had lost. No voices had called out, there had been no glimpse of a familiar face. 

Instead, Suga had been left shivering in the cold, finding shelter where he could to sleep for a few hours at a time, hungry and sporting bruised knuckles after he had punched a wall in frustration one night.

That last bit Suga had said quietly, as if he were afraid or ashamed to reveal that he had felt helpless, that the brushstrokes of color on his skin were caused by himself out of resentment.

Oikawa had thought of bruised knees and taped fingers and red forearms.

Saturday morning finds them both on the couch, Suga napping with his head on the armrest and his legs curled up, socked feet pushing into the side of Oikawa’s thigh.

Oikawa had gotten up earlier, had just made tea and settled down to watch the morning news, a habit he had picked up while Suga had been gone and that could be helpful in finding the others, before Suga had padded out of his bedroom and had laid down with a mumbled greeting, quickly going back to sleep.

The same thing had happened yesterday morning, but Oikawa isn’t complaining about the extra body heat. It’s started to get even colder outside, the hardwood floors like ice under his feet when he wakes in the mornings, the clouds glinting silver up in the sky, as if they’ve been spun from threads of steel.

Oikawa turns his attention from the tv to study Suga’s profile, his beauty mark a faint spot of ink against his skin in the faint light coming in through Oikawa’s closed curtains, his lips parted slightly, his shirt wrinkled.

The past few days have been spent letting Suga gather his strength back. He had admitted sheepishly that he had resorted to stealing food when no one was looking, but Oikawa knows it had barely been enough because Suga’s thinner now, more frail, Oikawa’s clothes seemingly even bigger on him now than they had been before.

The only good outcome of the entire thing had been that Suga hadn’t seen any of the "teachers" as he called them, no signs of anyone pursuing him.

Oikawa gently moves Suga’s legs, careful not to wake him, and gets up, stretching and setting his tea mug down on the coffee table, the leaves settled in the bottom in patterns of swirls and lines, moss green against the cracked baby blue porcelain.

He throws Suga one last glance before he heads to his bedroom to get dressed. It’s time for another trip to the grocery, and Oikawa feels déjà vu settle down around his head, tedious and somewhat disconcerting, as he returns to the living room, pulling a sweater on.

He gently shakes Suga’s shoulder, waits for the other’s eyes to flutter open, removes his hand so that Suga can sit up, hair sticking to one side of his head, irises blurry at first before they clear, like clouds moving from out in front of the sun.

"I have to run out quickly," Oikawa tells him, the shiver of this happening before trickling down his spine like a drop of water. But this time is different.

This time Suga is staying, will edge in beside Oikawa on the couch in the early morning, warm and already familiar, shoulders or knees fitting against Oikawa like puzzle pieces.

"Okay," Suga says, voice rough with sleep, squinting when a ray of sunlight hits him in the face, readjusting his position to avoid it.

"Do you want anything specific?" Oikawa asks, moving away to slip his shoes on, pulling his coat over his arms.

Suga shakes his head no, swings his legs down to the floor, shivering when the blanket he had over his legs slips away.

"Alright, I’ll be right back," Oikawa says, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. "There’s milk in the fridge if you’re thirsty, and there should be plenty of hot water in the shower."

Suga doesn’t reply, probably because he’s too busy trying not to trip over the blanket that is now twisted around his ankles and didn’t hear anything Oikawa just said, and Oikawa grins before he turns to pull the door open.

"Wow, perfect timing!"

The voice hits Oikawa before he sees the person, and he jumps, dropping his keys, which hit the floor in a clatter of metal.

Makki stands outside, his hand raised as if he were about to knock, Mattsun right next to him, the pink-haired boy beaming at Oikawa, clearly the one who had spoken.

Oikawa’s nerve endings spark enough for his fingers to twitch to shut the door, parallel to Suga's yelp of surprise, the sound followed immediately by a thump, and Oikawa knows that he’s tripped over the blanket without looking.

But it’s too late to slam the door closed, to tell Suga to hide under the sink cabinet again.

Makki peers over Oikawa’s shoulder curiously before his face changes from questioning to surprised to smug in the span of three seconds.

"Oh my, Mattsun," Makki says slowly, the words dripping from his lips like honey, saccharine and sweet, a million conclusions flashing behind his eyes, "it looks like we interrupted something."

Oikawa knows what this looks like, can pinpoint exactly what Makki and Mattsun are both thinking, so he runs with it, or a version of it, trying to keep his voice nonchalant even though it feels like his stomach’s dropped to his feet.

"Okay, first, what are you two doing loitering outside my front door?" Oikawa asks, crossing his arms over his chest, resisting the urge to look back at Suga.

"I told you he’d forget," Mattsun deadpans, adjusting his scarf around his neck.

They’re both dressed warmly, Makki sporting a pair of fluffy earmuffs around his neck, and Oikawa wracks his brain, tries to come up with an explanation for Mattsun’s words.

But Suga’s silence behind him is all he can focus on. It’s loud and deafening, and Oikawa would think that Suga has run off to one of the bedrooms if it weren’t for Makki continuously throwing glances into the living room, a smirk curving his mouth.

"We were supposed to meet for brunch, remember?" Makki supplies, obviously distracted, and Oikawa tries to be conspicuous as he stands on tiptoe, using his height to block Suga from sight.

"Saturday, 11:00 a.m., at that cute little café Akaashi told us about when we met him for dinner that one night," Makki continues, Mattsun pairing the words with a disappointed look in Oikawa’s direction as if Oikawa is responsible for all of his problems in life, including the one where he’s missing out on some avocado toast with egg. "Ring any bells?"

"Sorry," Oikawa says automatically, trying to stall for time. "I completely forgot."

"No shit," Mattsun mutters under his breath, ignoring the frown Oikawa sends his way.

"Yeah, I can see why," Makki says, raising an eyebrow at Oikawa and grinning like an idiot. "You should have told us you were busy. We could have rescheduled. Also, how did you convince someone as cute as him to come home with you? Iwaizumi mentioned that you were acting weird, but I didn’t even think of a-"

Oikawa flushes and hits Makki’s arm before he can finish his sentence, simultaneously mortified and offended.

"It’s not like that," Oikawa hurries to explain, finally, finally, looking over his shoulder to see where Suga is.

The other boy has managed to disentangle himself and is hovering in the middle of the living room, eyes meeting Oikawa’s, mirroring his panic.

"This is Futakuchi," Oikawa blurts, coming up with the first name that filters into his brain before he inwardly curses because he’s pretty sure that’s the name of the guy who’s dating Terushima from school. "He’s a classmate of mine and he’s run into some financial trouble, so I’m letting him stay here for a little while."

The story is plausible and Oikawa is relieved that he managed to come up with something that is half-way believable.

But Makki gives him a look, one that says he’s not buying it, not yet.

"That’s not what it looks like," he sing-songs, nudging Mattsun in the ribs. "Right, Matsukawa?"

Oikawa is hyper aware that Suga is wearing his clothes, including a long-sleeved black t-shirt that he had ordered in high school because he couldn’t resist the little, green alien peeking out of the chest pocket, and that both of them are a mess, hair and clothes rumpled because neither of them had had time to get ready for the day, but he forces himself to maintain eye contact with Makki.

Mattsun sighs dramatically. 

"I don’t care what it looks like," he answers. "I’m hungry."

"Aww, little baby Mattsun is hungry, Makki," Oikawa coos, pushing them both backwards with a hand on each of their chests. "Instead of playing detective and nosing into everyone else’s business, why don’t you go get some breakfast like the responsible adult we all know you’re not?"

His words are weak, but Oikawa is stressed and his brain isn’t working properly.

"That’s the best thing anyone’s said all morning," Mattsun grumbles, ignoring Makki’s pout.

"Okay, we’ll leave, but you owe us one for forgetting about brunch," Makki concedes. "Bring your boyfriend or boy toy or whatever over tonight for dinner. We’ll invite Iwaizumi and Akaashi too and we can all meet each other properly."

Oikawa opens his mouth to tell Makki no, but the other boy is already walking down the hall, Mattsun following with a somewhat apologetic glance in Oikawa’s direction, and all Oikawa can do is huff in frustration, turning back to his apartment and to Suga still standing frozen in the living room.

As soon as the door closes, Oikawa covers his face with his hands, guilt churning in his stomach.

"I’m so sorry, Suga-chan," he says. "I should have remembered they were coming over today, but with everything that happened, I-"

"It’s okay," Suga answers immediately, and Oikawa can feel him move closer. "It was an accident."

Oikawa removes his face from his hands but keeps his eyes closed, knocking the back of his head against the door, thankful at least that neither of them had tried to make conversation with Suga.

"Besides," Suga continues after a beat, "they were bound to find out about me eventually. So now at least we have a good excuse. It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do."

Oikawa groans, opening his eyes to see Suga standing within arms reach, smiling softly.

"You should be mad," Oikawa mutters, suddenly feeling the odd urge to flatten down Suga’s hair where it’s sticking up in the front, to run his fingers through the strands.

He thinks of the insinuations in Makki’s eyes and his words and flushes for the second time.

Suga shrugs. "There’s no use crying about something that already happened," he offers. "We’ll just have to run with it."

Oikawa blinks at him, and then smiles back.

"So wise, Suga-chan," he teases, thankfully feeling a little better about the whole thing, and Suga smirks, punching him in the arm, before his face turns serious.

"Do you think we can do some looking while we’re out?" he asks, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I can describe my family to you so that you can help."

He bites out the words carefully, cautiously, obviously still hesitant to involve Oikawa in any way, but despite the glaring reluctance, the words still hold the same meaning.

Oikawa nods immediately, heart skipping a beat, mind already running through the things they need to do before tonight.

He would make an excuse not to go to Makki and Mattsun’s apartment, but they need to convince them about the story he’s made up about Suga, and if it gives them the chance to start looking for Suga’s family, then there’s no reason not to go.

"I’ll figure out a way to disguise you before we leave so that no one sees you on the street," Oikawa says, picking up his keys from the floor. "And we can add more details to the whole financial crisis story to tell to Iwa-chan and the others."

Excitement flutters through his stomach, the same enthusiasm shining in Suga’s eyes when he looks up at him, because finally, they have a plan and they’re moving forward with it.

It’s silent for a few seconds, the jangle of Oikawa’s keys when he shifts them in his hand the only drop of noise, both of them thinking about the day ahead, before Suga speaks, eyebrows furrowed in adorable bewilderment.

"Oikawa?" he says, speaking again when Oikawa hums in response. "What’s a boy toy?"

Oikawa drops his keys again.


	9. smoke and glass

The warmth of the hairdryer is pleasant against Oikawa’s fingers, and it helps steady his nerves, helps him capture all of the butterflies in his stomach in a glass jar and set it on a high mental shelf.

And if Oikawa is calm, then Suga is completely tranquil.

Just the act of Oikawa drying his hair seems to have put him into a state of bliss; he’s slumped in the chair Oikawa had dragged from the kitchen into the bathroom, pliant, eyes drooping closed every few seconds, and Oikawa swears he’s almost purring.

They’d both showered and dressed earlier, and Oikawa has neglected his own personal beauty routine at the moment to help Suga out, especially since they can’t go out in this weather with wet hair.

Oikawa looks down, watches his fingers run through soft, silver strands, and forces himself to mentally go through their cover story again.

Suga’s name is Futakuchi Hiroki, different from the Futakuchi from school because Oikawa’s pretty sure his first name is Kenji or something, and him and Oikawa had met during their freshman year at New York University in one of those useless common core classes they all had to take.

Fast-forward to the fall of their senior year and the two of them had run into each other on the street, which led to getting coffee so they could catch up, which then led to Futakuchi confessing that he was struggling to pay tuition and rent at the same time and had taken on two jobs to keep up, which still wasn’t quite enough.

So, out of the kindness of his heart, which all of his friends will probably scoff at but will have to believe, Oikawa had offered to let Futakuchi live with him since he had an empty guest bedroom, just until Futakuchi could find a better paying job. They’re splitting rent, which is a win-win for both sides, and Futakuchi takes care of the chores while Oikawa buys things like food and shampoo.

It’s a very reasonable, logical story, and it doesn’t leave much room for questions.

Oikawa fluffs out Suga’s bangs a little until he’s satisfied that they’re completely dry, and then turns the hairdryer off, reaching around to tap Suga on the forehead with two fingers because his eyes are still closed.

"You’re all done, Suga-chan," he sing-songs, setting the hairdryer down on the sink counter and watching in the mirror as Suga’s eyes flutter open.

"Thanks," Suga says, and then yawns, stifling it quickly with a hand over his mouth and looking sheepish.

Oikawa laughs.

"Do you want me to dry your hair?" Suga asks, turning around in the seat to look up at Oikawa instead of meeting his gaze in the mirror.

Oikawa contemplates it, staring at his reflection. His hair is still pretty damp, hanging loose around his face.

"Sure," he finally decides. 

It’s been a while since he’s had anyone help him dry his hair. The last time, he thinks, had been when he had still been living at home and had caught the flu. 

His mother had done it that time, running slow fingers through his hair and humming when she was done, wrapping Oikawa in a blanket and ushering him to bed, his sister appearing with soup a little while later.

He remembers odd little details about the memory, like the weight of his bedcovers and the smell of the soup, something with chicken broth and ginger. The lingering of his mother’s hand against his forehead when she checked his temperature, the teasing of his sister that he would probably still try to go to volleyball practice the next day. The rustle of the leaves on the tree right outside his window as a warm, spring breeze blew through them.

Oikawa switches places with Suga, the two of them edging around opposite sides of the chair like two hands of a clock, and Suga reaches past him to grab the hairdryer once he’s seated, slender fingers wrapping around the handle.

There aren’t any words while Suga works, partly because it’s too much effort to speak over the drone of the hairdryer and partly because Oikawa’s enjoying this too much to want to talk.

Also, Suga looks very concentrated on his task in his reflection, eyebrows furrowed and eyes focused on the top of Oikawa’s head.

His fingers are gentle, soft, lull Oikawa into the same easy relaxation Suga had been in before, the warm air encompassing the back of his neck and the tips of his ears.

The bathroom is heady with the scent of shampoo, full of the lazy hum of the hairdryer, and Oikawa lets his eyes close, focuses only on Suga’s touch and nothing else.

He daydreams about home, of mornings spent under his bedcovers listening to the patter of rain outside, of the first time he set a volleyball.

Time seems to shrink, to envelop him in this weird half-space, part of him aware of Suga and his cramped bathroom and fingertips brushing against the exposed skin of his neck, and the other part of him lost in nostalgia.

Sooner than he would’ve liked, however, the hairdryer turns off, Suga taps him on the shoulder, says, "I think I’m done."

Oikawa opens his eyes, snorts when he sees how unruly his hair looks, the way it usually does before he’s styled it.

He stands up, pushes the chair back out into the hall, and turns to Suga, contemplating.

"What?" Suga asks warily.

"Come here," Oikawa says, waving his hand to get Suga to step closer.

He turns to the sink drawer for a moment, rummaging around, until he finds what he had been looking for and turns around triumphantly.

"What is that?" Suga questions, backing up a little, but Oikawa grabs his wrist gently, keeping him in place.

"It’s eyeliner. It’s make-up, for your face. Just trust me, I’ll only do a little."

Suga’s eyes flit from the pencil in Oikawa’s hand to his face, but he says, "Okay," so Oikawa positions himself directly in front of Suga and lifts his chin with two fingers.

A few minutes later, after Oikawa has also maneuvered Suga’s hair into neatness with a hairbrush, he steps back to admire his work.

Oikawa whistles under his breath, puts his hands on Suga’s shoulders to turn the other boy towards the mirror.

"Ta-da," he says, as if he performed a magic trick, even though he’s aware that Suga would look good with or without Oikawa’s touchups.

But Suga’s eyes widen in the mirror, a soft, "Oh," escaping his lips at his reflection.

It’s just a little bit of black eyeliner on his lower waterline, but it gives Suga’s eyes a darker look, outlining the gold irises with smoke.

Paired with Suga’s naturally beautiful silver hair and a dark-washed skinny jeans/black, long-sleeved sweater combo from Oikawa’s closet, Oikawa thinks that Suga looks like he could have just jumped off the cover of a men’s wear magazine.

Oikawa squints at his own reflection and grimaces.

"Okay, now it’s my turn," he says, brushing a stray strand of hair from Suga’s forehead quickly, before he ushers him out of the door. "I’ll be ready to go in, like, twenty minutes."

Suga’s perched on the edge of the couch by the time Oikawa emerges from the bathroom, hair finally tamed into it’s usual glory, wearing a button-down shirt and cologne.

He looks nervous sitting there, sneaker tapping against the floor in a hurried, offbeat rhythm, so Oikawa waves him over to the front of the apartment, grabs a coat and a few scarves from the shoe closet before Suga reaches him.

"Here," Oikawa says, looping a scarf around Suga’s neck and handing him the coat. "It’s a good thing it’s cold outside, otherwise disguising you would be a little more difficult."

He finds gloves and a beanie next, tugging the hat down over Suga’s head while Suga pulls the gloves on, Suga laughing a little when Oikawa covers his eyes with the hem of the beanie on purpose.

"Perfect," Oikawa says once they’re done.

Suga is completely covered from the waist up, eyes visible between the scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face and the purple beanie over his hair, little tendrils of silver hair escaping and falling over Suga’s forehead, like feathers.

Suga fiddles with the gloves, but eventually stills, seeming to steel himself with a deep breath.

"Ready?" Oikawa asks once he’s got his own coat and scarf on, apartment keys in his palm.

"Yes," Suga says, voice muffled and soft.

Oikawa hesitates for a second before he holds out his hand.

Suga takes it.

It’s bearable outside, not as cold tonight as it has been others, and the snow is almost gone, melted or turned into gray sludge that piles against the edges of the streets.

Everything looks sharper, as if the winter air has covered the buildings and the lights and the people in a layer of glass. 

Oikawa checks his phone, sees a few text messages from Makki reminding him not to forget about dinner, a couple from Iwaizumi asking him who the hell Futakuchi is and why Makki is so excited to have them over tonight.

He responds to both, telling Iwaizumi that patience is a virtue and ignoring the angry buzz of his phone when he gets a quick response.

Him and Suga have a few hours to roam the streets before they’re supposed to be at Makki and Mattsun’s apartment, a few hours to look.

Already Oikawa knows that looking is the only thing they can do. They can’t go to the police for fear of drawing attention to themselves, they can’t put up flyers or descriptions because the wrong people could see them. 

They’re limited, stuck to searching a city with a population of almost nine million for five people.

It hadn’t struck him before, the enormity of the task before them, the almost guaranteed truth that they would have to rely heavily on luck at some point, but Oikawa feels it now as they walk, Suga still holding onto his hand and Oikawa not trying to let go.

He thinks of the descriptions Suga had carefully laid out for him earlier, back in his apartment, voice curving around the names protectively and leaving no doubt that they were very, very precious to him.

Yamaguchi, Shirabu, Yahaba, Kunimi.

And Kenma.

Suga’s voice had shaken slightly with Kenma’s name, had wavered before Suga could control it.

Oikawa tightens his grip on Suga’s hand.

All around them the city swells and crashes, surges with noise and colors.

And they keep looking.

Oikawa pulls Suga to the side before they enter the building.

"We’ll look again on the way home," he says, trying to offer some kind of consolation.

He can feel the despair radiating from Suga, the result of two hours of endless searching, two hours full of strangers passing them on the sidewalk, two hours of cold air that eventually settled in their hearts, pumping ice through veins.

Suga nods, not speaking, eyes downcast, and Oikawa tugs him closer, says, "Come here," and lets Suga lean his head against his chest, wraps his arms around Suga’s shoulders and lets him shudder against him, lets him quietly break down.

"Wow, right on time," Makki says as soon as he opens the door and sees who it is.

Oikawa rolls his eyes and pushes inside, Suga close behind him.

"I wasn’t going to risk not coming and having you spread lies around the entire city, Makk-," he starts before stopping, mouth dropping open.

Suga freezes behind him, obviously just as taken aback by the scene in front of them as Oikawa is.

Oikawa whirls around to face Makki immediately.

"What the fuck happened to dinner?" he asks incredulously, wondering how he hadn’t heard all of the noise before they had reached the apartment door and deciding that he had been too distracted to pay too much attention to the faint thump of music through the walls.

Makki has the decency to look a little ashamed, but the expression quickly leaves his face, a grin taking its place.

"Well, I confiscated Iwaizumi’s phone earlier today and decided to invite some of your guys’ friends, and then they invited their friends, and they invited… well, you get the idea. What? It’s not as if you’ve never been to a party before. If my memory serves me right, there was that one time that you stood in the middle of the street and shouted for the aliens to come and take you to their leader for ten straight minutes. And then you threw up in someone’s front lawn."

Oikawa flushes in embarrassment, hoping that Suga didn’t catch all of that over the heavy bass reverberating through the room.

"So instead of actual food, I guess all we’re getting is cheap vodka and impromptu stripping," Oikawa deadpans, not phrasing the sentence as a question, and Makki’s grin widens, eyes sparkling.

He claps Oikawa on the back.

"Cheap vodka is a given," he says. "The stripping part, though, that depends on whether or not Futakuchi here is actually just a friend."

Suga hasn’t removed his beanie or scarf yet, and he blinks at Makki’s stare, obviously unsure of how to respond.

"He’s a friend, and I was going to explain everything over a nice, quiet dinner table, but that’s obviously not going to happen now," Oikawa fills in, pinching Makki’s ear as a small form of payback and smirking when the other boy shrieks and whacks his fingers away.

"You’ll have plenty of time to explain," Makki starts to purr, side-eyeing Suga again, before something in the living room that’s full of people catches his eye.

"Hold that thought," he says to Oikawa, walking away quickly, his voice rising above the clamor. "Hey, you can’t stand on that! This is a rental, not some kind of fucking playground!"

Oikawa sighs heavily and turns to Suga.

"We can leave if you want," he tells him, watching Suga peer over his shoulder curiously. The skin under his eyes is still a little red, but Suga’s eyes are bright again, distracted for a little while. "If I’d known that Makki had been planning all of this, I would’ve made some excuse not to come."

"Is it safe?" Suga asks, tugging his scarf down from over his mouth, and Oikawa glances over his shoulder, knowing what Suga is referring to, takes in all of the people, most of which he recognizes from school.

"Yeah," he says after a minute. "I mean, besides possibly getting stuck in awkward social conversation or having to deal with vomit, it’s just your average college party, so it’s just a bunch of students. Also, Makki and Mattsun are pretty responsible despite their appearance, so they’ll make sure no one’s getting out of hand or doing drugs or trying to drive home. Neither of them drink at their own parties."

Suga takes a moment to process the new information, and then nods.

"It’s a good chance to tell them about me," he says, hesitating before he tugs the beanie off. "And we did come all of the way here already."

Oikawa unwraps Suga’s scarf for him.

"Okay, but stay next to me the entire time," he warns, pulling off his own coat. "And don’t touch any alcohol, especially not the vodka."

The tiny apartment is crammed with students, the couch having been shoved against a wall to make room for dancing in the center of the living room, the music pouring from a stereo system, beer bottles and plastic cups littering every available surface, and Oikawa wonders how early the party actually started.

The beat of the current song is upbeat and fast, the notes shivering over Oikawa’s skin and surging up through his shoes to pound against his ribcage.

He wonders if any of the neighbors have filed a noise complaint yet.

Iwaizumi, Akaashi, and Mattsun are nowhere to be seen as Oikawa pushes through the crowd to get to the kitchen, pulling Suga behind him.

Suga seems to have taken everything in fairly quickly for someone who’s never been to a party like this in their entire life, his hand warm in Oikawa’s, not shying away from the press of people around them.

A few of the dancers call out greetings as Oikawa passes, some of them teammates, and Oikawa waves back but keeps moving, trying to find a quieter place to stand.

The kitchen is a little less crowded, bottles of alcohol decorating the counter, a half-empty gallon of lemonade and liters of soda scattered in between.

There’s a couple making out against the fridge, and a few other people having a conversation in front of the sink, but Oikawa finds a relatively empty space next to the island and leans against it, searching for Makki’s pink hair or Mattsun’s signature bored expression.

Suga hovers close to him, watches the people dance in the living room, his hair shining under the fluorescent lights in the kitchen, still holding Oikawa’s hand, their fingers laced together comfortably, keeping them together in the chaos of people stumbling over each other, of red lipstick stains on the edges of glasses, of the buzz of conversation, the glint of piercings, the bright colors of mixed drinks.

The air is warm in here and presses close, full of the cloying scents of alcohol and sweat, the floor sticky under Oikawa’s shoes where someone’s spilled something.

He’s just getting ready to ask Suga if he wants some water or if he wants to find a place to sit down when a hand clamps over his shoulder from behind.

Oikawa whirls around and promptly grins, relieved to see Iwaizumi finally, Akaashi by his side.

"Iwa-chan," he greets cheerfully. "Kaash-chan. What a pleasant surprise."

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes.

"If I’d known that Makki was going to pull something like this, I would’ve stayed home," Iwaizumi grumbles, a half-empty beer bottle in his hand. "He’d better be buying us dinner after tonight."

"My thoughts exactly, Iwa-chan," Oikawa agrees, glancing around again. "Where’d he go anyway?"

"I saw him dragging someone out of the bathroom five minutes ago," Akaashi supplies, voice somehow still graceful and delicate even though he has to raise it to be heard over all of the noise.

Oikawa opens his mouth to ask about Mattsun, but Iwaizumi is looking behind him, spotting Suga and then looking to Oikawa.

"Shouldn’t you be introducing us to someone, Shittykawa?" he asks, and Oikawa ignores the jump in his heartbeat in favor of glancing at Suga, who squeezes his hand in answer.

"Iwa-chan, Kaash-chan, this is Futakuchi-chan," he says, mouth suddenly dry, putting a little more effort in to make his voice casual. "He’s a friend from school and he’s staying with me for a little while because of money problems."

Iwaizumi gives him a look, but Oikawa keeps his face straight.

"Nice to meet you," Akaashi says, holding out his hand to shake Suga’s, Iwaizumi mimicking the action, the three of them exchanging names, Suga’s voice probably more convincing than Oikawa’s when he introduces himself again as Futakuchi Hiroki.

Oikawa notices Iwaizumi’s eyes flicker down, realizing too late that their hands are still joined, and he can’t help but flush a little when his best friend meets his gaze again, a small smirk flickering across his face.

Suga seems to notice the look at the same time because they’re both releasing each other’s hand simultaneously, Oikawa clearing his throat.

"Anyway, I’ll tell you both the full story later, when Makki and Mattsun are here too," Oikawa continues.

There’s a call of his name then, a girl from one of his previous math courses shouting out in passing, tugging another girl behind her, and Oikawa waves back, flashes a smile.

The interruption distracts him only for a second, but the next few moments after are suddenly filled with a burst of noise and movement that is misplaced amongst everything else, full of Suga inhaling sharply enough to send Oikawa immediately into a mode of alarm, the deafening noise of the party suddenly seeming to disappear, several things happening in quick succession, leaving Oikawa stunned into motionless.

A boy in sweatpants and a sweatshirt stumbles into the kitchen, almost falling over himself in his haste, his eyes wide and disbelieving and completely focused on Suga, lips parted on a name.

Suga jerks as if he’s been shocked, his entire body stiffening beside Oikawa, before he cries out, tripping over his feet and taking the few steps forward to reach the other, gripping the front of his jacket in shaking hands, knuckles white.

And then he’s sobbing, gathering the boy with dark hair and delicate features to him and crying, the noise lost amidst the music as the sounds of the party return to Oikawa’s ears, but not before he hears Suga say a name, his voice breaking, and feels his own heart leap in his chest.

Because it’s one of them.


	10. obsidian and petals

The scene unfolding in front of Oikawa is improbable and prodigious and entirely out of place amongst the ear-crashing bass, amongst the spinning, gyrating bodies of drunk college kids, amongst the sickly sweet stench of alcohol.

It’s two different worlds colliding with each other, side-by-side, one completely unaware of the other, completely oblivious to the implication of the two boys standing in the middle of the kitchen, blissfully ignorant to their story and where they came from and what this means.

Oikawa, however, feels like he’s fallen down the rabbit hole headfirst, suddenly weightless and disoriented. 

That is until Iwaizumi shakes his shoulder, jerking him back to reality.

"Is he okay?" his friend asks, and the question is genuine, his face open with confusion, eyes flashing with concern.

Akaashi has already gotten closer to the two embracing in the middle of the kitchen, laying a gentle hand on Suga’s shoulder and saying something that Oikawa can’t hear.

Oikawa watches Suga lift his head from where he’d pressed it to the other boy’s neck, face wet with tears, a watery grin playing across his lips, and the sight is enough for Oikawa to unstick his shoes from the floor and move.

Suga wipes at his face with the sleeves of his sweater, eyes shining when he looks at Oikawa, brilliant and bright and looking like he’s taken the same tumble into an alternate world, but as if he jumped rather than fell, as if he threw himself wholeheartedly and completely into the unknown without bothering to look back.

The other boy clings to Suga with shaking hands, fingers twisted so tightly into Suga’s sweater that Oikawa is sure it will rip, his body angled so that he’s almost pressed entirely along the length of Suga’s body.

He regards both Akaashi and Oikawa with narrowed eyes, the dark edges of suspicion and fear nearly tangible, surrounding him like a thundercloud.

"Oikawa," Suga starts, voice shaky and on the edge of breaking, trembling with wonder, with excitement and elation.

He tries to continue, but the words seem to catch in his throat, hitching breaths taking their place as more tears well up in his eyes.

"Shh, it’s okay," Oikawa gets out over the racing of his heart, the dryness of his mouth. "Come on, we can find somewhere quieter."

Suga blinks furiously, and Oikawa watches as the realization of their situation dawns in his eyes, like the sun cresting over the horizon of the ocean.

He nods, turns his face back towards the boy and says something low and hurried enough for it to be covered up by the noises of the party, resting light fingers over the ones that still have a death grip on the front of his sweater.

Oikawa watches the boy hesitate, watches him throw him another sharp look, dark eyes flashing in the artificial light, before he shuffles an inch or two away from Suga, slowly uncurling his fists to instead slide a hand into Suga’s open one.

They start to move out of the kitchen, Suga throwing Oikawa a glance over his shoulder, and Oikawa turns to Akaashi and Iwaizumi, who’s gravitated to their sides during the whole thing, to do damage control.

"Before you start asking any questions, let me explain first," Oikawa says in a rush, already sensing Iwaizumi’s weighted gaze and Akaashi’s serious stare.

He silently thanks the universe that neither Makki or Mattsun were around to also witness Suga’s reunion and that the rest of the partygoers are either too drunk to care or just disinterested.

"It’s his younger brother," he says, blessing his ability to think quickly on his feet. "I don’t know all of the details, but apparently he was living with Futakuchi and they got into a pretty big argument about him going back home to live with their parents about a week ago, and he ended up running away. Futakuchi has been worried sick. He filed a police report and contacted his parents and his brother’s friends, but no one had seen him."

Oikawa makes a mental note to write all of these lies down when he gets home tonight because there’s no way he’s going to keep all of this straight without some help.

Akaashi’s questioning gaze turns into one of sympathy, and Iwaizumi still looks taken aback by the entire exchange, but he also seems to accept Oikawa’s explanation, lacing his fingers through Akaashi’s at their sides, the crease in his forehead smoothing out.

"I should probably follow them," Oikawa says before either of them can ask any possible questions, and no one tries to stop him from leaving.

He spots Suga’s argent hair as soon as he rushes through the front door, grabbing their coats on the way out.

He’s standing with the boy a little farther down the hall, the two of them conversing seriously in rushed, hushed tones, heads bowed together, the moon and the night sky.

Everything about this seems unreal, but the scene in front of him doesn’t waver as he walks closer, doesn’t disappear in a cloud of smoke or shatter into glittering fragments.

As soon as Oikawa gets within five feet of the two, the boy’s head snaps towards him, eyes shrewd and calculating, the same as Suga’s had been that first night, but sharper, like the jagged, cutting edge of obsidian glass.

For the first time in the past ten minutes, Oikawa feels out of place, unsure, the sensation magnified by the stillness of the hallway, the silence that’s accompanied by the faint thump of music through the walls.

Suga breaks the quiet.

"Kunimi, it’s okay," he says, lays a hand on the boy’s arm.

Suga’s fingers still shake a little, probably from adrenaline, probably from both overwhelming disbelief and the breathless relief Oikawa had seen laid out on his face in the apartment kitchen.

Kunimi matches Suga’s description perfectly, all dark hair and dark eyes and glass-like features. He’s wearing a similar pair of clothes to what Suga had first shown up in and dirty sneakers, the tips scuffed and stained, the laces dirty. His collarbones look like the wings of some bird, sharp and clearly visible under his skin, which is so pale in the hallway light that it looks translucent.

Suga turns to Oikawa, eyelashes still wet, brushstrokes of ink against his skin when he blinks, and grins so wide that Oikawa can’t help but smile back, warmth flooding his chest.

"We need to talk," Suga says, echoing what Oikawa is thinking. "But not here."

Oikawa nods, hands Suga his coat and scarf, hesitates for a moment before he holds his own coat and scarf and the beanie out to Kunimi.

Kunimi flinches backwards immediately, lips curling back as if he’s going to speak, baring teeth, and Oikawa is reminded of a stray cat.

Suga reaches out quickly, wraps a hand around Kunimi’s wrist.

"It’s okay," Suga repeats. "Oikawa knows about us. He’s been helping me."

Kunimi’s face goes slack with surprise, mouth falling closed, before his features twist, like someone punched him in the stomach.

"You _told_ him?" he says incredulously, the first time Oikawa’s heard him speak, voice just as biting as his eyes, acerbic and piercing. "Koushi, what were you thinking? What if he-"

"Not here," Suga interrupts firmly, letting go of Kunimi’s wrist. "We need to leave. Put these on before we go out."

Suga moves to take the coat and beanie from Oikawa’s hands, shooting him a conciliatory look as he does so, and Oikawa is still too stunned by everything to respond.

The wonder of going through all of this a second time with a new person should have been somewhat affected by his time with Suga, but Oikawa can’t help but feel like he’s dreaming, like he’s still crashing, whirling, tumbling farther and farther away from reality, down, down, down the rabbit hole.

It’s not as if he had ever doubted Suga’s words, but having a real, live person to match Suga’s descriptions in front of him only makes everything that much more real.

Kunimi takes the clothes carefully, as if he’s trying to touch as little of the fabric as possible, slips the coat on and then the hat and scarf and looks at least a little warmer because of it, if not too happy.

Suga shoots Oikawa a worried look when he realizes that this leaves Oikawa in nothing but his button-down shirt and jeans, but Oikawa waves him off.

"It’s more important for you two to be hidden," he says, moving around the two so that he’s in front. "Besides, the walk isn’t that long."

Two boys stumble out of Makki and Mattsun’s front door then, giggling and very much drunk, leaning on each for support, followed by a third guy, who says something that has the other two erupting into boisterous laughter that’s surely going to annoy the neighbors.

"We should go," Oikawa says.

The three of them disappear down the hall.

Oikawa isn’t entirely sure why he still feels so dazed.

Maybe it’s because Kunimi showed up so suddenly, out of the blue, dropping into existence as if just the sheer force of Suga’s will had brought him there.

Maybe it’s because the two of them are currently sitting in his living room on his couch, conversing with their heads close together again, Kunimi refusing to move more than a foot away from Suga.

Maybe it’s because Oikawa is still very cold from walking all of the way home without a coat.

Whatever the reason is, Oikawa can do nothing but stare blindly at the microwave as he heats three mugs of hot chocolate, questions welling up in his mind.

He sits on the floor when he returns to the living room, wrapped in a blanket from his bed and with two layers of socks on, his hands wrapped around the hot mug, and déjà vu slaps him in the face.

If someone had told Oikawa that he’d be hosting complete strangers in his living room twice during winter break, he would’ve either laughed or walked away very quickly, depending on the person.

Suga thanks him for the drink, nudges Kunimi in the ribs when the other boy doesn’t make any move to speak or even take his mug, and then, when Kunimi isn’t looking because he’s too busy glaring at the chocolate as if it just said something incredibly rude to him, Suga smiles, eyes lingering on Kunimi’s side profile.

If Suga’s smile had been blinding to Oikawa before, then this one is like a supernova, shocking and luminous and so very, very beautiful, and Oikawa has to forcibly drag his eyes away after a few seconds.

He chokes on his cocoa when his gaze moves to Kunimi only to find the boy staring at him just as murderously as he had been looking at the hot chocolate.

Suga glances over quickly with a worried raise of his eyebrows, but Kunimi chooses that moment to speak, and Suga’s attention is diverted.

"Who are you anyway?" he asks bluntly, eyes not leaving Oikawa’s face.

Oikawa hopes there’s not chocolate all over his face, wiping at his lips with his sleeve because some of it landed on his chin, and tries to look unimpressed with Kunimi’s tone, despite the fact that Oikawa is the one sitting on the floor, swaddled like a baby and wearing his black, prescription glasses because the cold, dry air had made wearing his contacts very uncomfortable, with hot chocolate probably on the front of his shirt.

Suga shoots Kunimi a look, mouth turned downwards in disapproval, but Oikawa speaks first.

"Oikawa Tooru," he says, returning Kunimi’s steady stare. "And you must be Kunimi Akira."

For the second time that night, Kunimi’s face registers surprise and he narrows his eyes at Suga.

"You told him everything, didn’t you?" he says, sounding sure of the answer even though disbelief is also there, flashing through his eyes like phosphenes.

"I did," Suga says evenly, once more glancing over at Oikawa, something that reminds Oikawa of trust written on his face, a stray strand of silver hair falling across his forehead, and Oikawa’s heart thumps once irregularly. "Oikawa’s a friend."

Kunimi makes a low noise in the back of his throat, one of frustration and objection, eyes moving from Oikawa to Suga and back again.

"Why would you do something so stupid?" he blurts in response, pitching his voice low as if Oikawa won’t be able to hear him even though they’re sitting three feet apart.

For the first time that night, Oikawa feels irritation prickle up his spine, the feeling rising in his throat when he sees Suga’s surprised blink that is followed quickly by a brief twist of his mouth and darkening of his eyes that reads as hurt.

He knows that this is more between them than it is between him and Suga, but he’s watched Suga cry and search the city for hours and put on a brave face ever since he showed up in Oikawa’s life two weeks ago, and the words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

"Suga-chan’s anything but stupid, Kunimi-chan," he says, smiling not-so-innocently at the other boy and using two fingers to push his glasses up from where they’re slipping down the bridge of his nose. "I would’ve thought you would know that more than me."

Kunimi’s lips press into a thin line, but instead of responding, he takes a deep breath, lays a hand on Suga’s arm.

"I’m sorry," he mutters. "I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just tired and I only found you through dumb luck, and everything has been hell since we left, and I just-"

He closes his eyes briefly, lets Suga take his hand again, hold it in both of his own.

"I know," Suga says simply. "It’s okay."

Kunimi’s eyes open again, and this time they’re suspiciously shiny even when Oikawa can tell he’s trying very, very hard to keep a straight face.

Oikawa goes back to the kitchen to give them some privacy when Kunimi’s face finally twists, his facade crumbling quickly, burying his head in Suga’s chest, trying to muffle the sobs that wrench from his chest.

"Is he okay?" Oikawa asks as soon as Suga reappears in the living room.

It’s late, sometime early in the morning, and Suga collapses onto the couch beside Oikawa, scooting to get under the blanket Oikawa has over his lap when he holds the corner open in invitation.

"He’s sleeping," Suga answers, and Oikawa understands.

"You should sleep too," Oikawa tells him, but Suga shakes his head, the side of his thigh pressing into Oikawa’s, their elbows bumping.

"I can’t sleep," Suga admits, leaning his head back against the back of the couch, the long line of his neck illuminated by the lights outside Oikawa’s window. "I can’t believe he found me."

Oikawa glances over at the soft curve of Suga’s mouth and bumps their shoulders together.

"I’m glad he did," Oikawa says softly.

Suga turns his head to the side to look at Oikawa, and Oikawa vaguely has the thought that Suga could actually be an alien because even though he can tell Suga is exhausted, can see the slump of his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes, the other boy is still undeniably beautiful, all bright hair and long eyelashes and large eyes and that delicate beauty mark.

"Thank you," Suga says quietly, and for a brief, horrified second, Oikawa thinks that maybe he spoke his thoughts out loud, but Suga continues before he has the time to feel embarrassed.

"For everything, I mean. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t met you."

Oikawa recovers quickly, reaches out and flicking Suga lightly on the forehead, watches the other boy’s nose scrunch up and his brow furrow, eyes crossing comically.

"No need to thank me, Suga-chan," Oikawa says lightly, slumping farther under the blanket because everywhere that they’re not touching is still cold. "I’m only being the gracious human being that I am. Besides, I still haven’t figured out if you’re really an alien or not, so I do have ulterior motives."

Suga rolls his eyes good-naturedly and Oikawa smirks, secretly pleased that they’ve gotten to the stage where Suga is starting to understand Oikawa’s humor and can counter him with his own teasing.

Unlike Iwa-chan, he doesn’t hit him every time Oikawa mentions extraterrestrials, which is also nice.

It’s silent for a moment or two, comfortable, the only sounds their soft breathing, the occasional honk of a car or the shutting of a door from somewhere else in the apartment building.

"So he heard your voice," Oikawa muses, picking at a broken thread in the blanket, breaking the quiet, thinking back to what Kunimi had told them after he had wiped the tears furiously from his face, after he had drank half of the hot chocolate Oikawa had made and had mumbled a thanks under his breath, the words quiet and forced but not lacking meaning. "And he followed us."

Suga hums in affirmation, his voice slow and drowsy, milk swirling into tea, the warmth of an embrace, the glitter of the universe on a clear night.

Oikawa leans his head back as well, lets his body sink more comfortably into the couch, lets his knee nudge against Suga’s leg.

Other than that piece of information, Kunimi hadn’t had much more to tell, but the sole, miraculous fact that he had found Suga had been more than enough to eclipse that disappointment for the time being.

Kunimi had been thrown into solitude almost as suddenly as Suga had, the last person he had seen being Yahaba, but then even that had been snatched from him, lost in a crowd of people and traffic and lights and noise and rain.

The next two weeks had been a matter of surviving, finding places to sleep and food to eat, much like when Suga had left on his own.

The exhaustion, both physically and mentally, are painfully obvious, are present in the shadows in Kunimi’s eyes and the cut of his shoulder blades through his shirt when he had changed into a clean pair of Oikawa’s clothes after showering, a mirror of the events from two weeks ago, but with a different face, an alternate universe.

Suga’s breath is evening out, slowing down, as they sit there, his body curving towards Oikawa’s, eyes closed and lips parted as the events of the day bleed from his limbs.

Oikawa watches Suga slowly fall asleep and feels something twist in his chest, so similar to the small tug he had felt earlier when Suga had looked at him with eyes shining with certainty.

Faith, trust, belief, whatever it is, Oikawa can feel it blooming between them, delicate petals curving open, a push and pull of give and take.

_"Oikawa’s a friend."_

Oikawa lets Suga’s head rest against his shoulder, his hair tickling his neck, lets him push into the warmth of his side and breathe wetly against his skin, lets Suga curl gentle fingers into the front of his shirt and angle more towards the beat of his heart in his chest.

And he can’t help but wrap an arm around Suga’s shoulders and tug him closer, resting his cheek against Suga’s hair and letting his own eyes fall closed, not worrying too much about the third gentle jerk in his chest.

It’s hot when Oikawa wakes up, the back of his neck damp with a light sheen of sweat, and for one, sleep-heavy second, he thinks it might be summer.

But cold air hits his skin when he shifts, and his eyes flutter open to realize that the reason he’s so warm is because he’s still on the couch with Suga and the blanket, both wrapped around him, one of Suga’s pale arms thrown haphazardly over Oikawa’s waist, the soft skin near the bend of his elbow painted with a constellation of three moles.

Sometime during the night, because it’s morning now, soft sunlight filling the room, their legs have tangled together, Suga’s socked toes pushing against one of Oikawa’s calves, and Oikawa’s arm is still around the arch of Suga’s shoulders, pins and needles when he moves it a little. Suga breathes slowly against his skin, head cradled in the warm curve of Oikawa’s neck.

Oikawa is too drowsy to care that the way they’re curled together could be considered too intimate for a pair of friends, especially ones that haven’t known each other too long, or that Kunimi could walk in and find them like this.

Instead, he lets his eyes droop closed again, buries his nose in the crown of Suga’s head, who shifts against him and mumbles something unintelligible under his breath, still fast asleep.

He’s just about to drift off to sleep again, teetering on the edge between consciousness and falling, inhaling the sweet scent of Suga’s hair, when a soft knock at the front door jerks him from the shimmer of half-awake dreams.

Suga wakes up too, his body stirring, eyelids blinking once, twice, meeting Oikawa’s eyes before he sits up, the hints of a flush on his cheeks.

"The door-," he starts, voice getting stuck in his throat, and Oikawa nods, disentangles himself from the blanket, stands on unsteady feet, pads over to the front door just as there’s another gentle rap.

He peeks blearily through the peephole, pulse quickening a little in anticipation, trying to remember if he had promised to meet any of his friends today and then wondering if they were always going to catch him like this, half-awake with messy hair.

As soon as he sees who it is, Oikawa opens the door immediately, concern driving any remaining traces of sleep away, meeting tear-filled eyes and bubblegum-pink hair on the other side.

"Makki, are you okay?"


	11. storms and stars

"Can I come in?" Makki asks, and there’s no sign of his usual snark, no trace of the gleam that’s almost always in his eyes that says that he’s planning something, that he’s going to pull some prank and that everyone better be ready for it.

All of that has disappeared at the moment, pulled back and hidden to make room for the slump of Makki’s shoulders and the one tear that manages to escape and roll down the slope of a cheek.

Oikawa grabs Makki’s wrist and tugs him inside, panicking a little.

"Is everyone okay?" he asks, wondering if this has anything to do with the party.

Makki wouldn’t have come here if someone had gotten hurt. He would’ve called the police or the hospital.

Still, Oikawa has to ask.

It isn’t until Makki steps fully into the apartment that Oikawa notices the duffel bag slung over his back.

"Everyone’s fine," Makki mumbles, wiping the tear from his face with a quick brush of his fingers, avoiding Oikawa’s eyes as if he’s embarrassed, as if they haven’t known each other since grade school, haven’t seen each other at their lowest or placed bandaids on each other’s scraped knees, haven’t offered shoulders to cry on or hands to hold or had movie nights with lots of ice cream and a tissue box on hand. "I just-"

He stops, sighing heavily, looks up to meet Oikawa’s worried gaze.

"Can I stay here for a few nights?"

Oh.

_Oh._

"Mattsun," Oikawa says, piecing it together.

Makki pulls a face, pained and ashamed at the same time, a new wave of tears welling up behind his lashes.

"It’s all my fault," Makki says, voice breaking, dropping his bag to the ground, arms hanging limply at his sides.

"Come over here," Oikawa urges his friend, letting Makki toe off his shoes before he pulls him over to the couch.

Suga is gone, probably back in the guest bedroom checking on Kunimi and giving Makki some space, but the blanket is still there, and Oikawa tugs Makki down to sit, wraps the blanket around his shoulders because he can feel how cold he must be through his fingers, ice in his grip.

Makki sniffs when he does that, still not crying, and leans into Oikawa’s body, huddling into the warmth, still dressed in the clothes he had on last night, the chilled kiss of the piercing in his eyebrow against Oikawa’s collarbone, and Oikawa remembers that night he had run into Makki and Mattsun outside of the grocery, remembers sensing the tension between them, and feels guilty for not asking one of them about it.

"I’ve been a shitty friend," he says out loud, running fingers through Makki’s hair. It’s stiff with hairspray, covered in glitter, the shiny pieces sticking to his fingertips and sparkling every time he moves his hand.

Makki shakes his head and exhales, a cloud of warm air against Oikawa’s skin, pulling back to see Oikawa’s face.

Out of everyone else in their group, Makki is most like Oikawa when it comes to crying. He doesn’t like to do it in front of others, will do anything, pinch the inside of his wrist, blink a million times, to keep it from happening until he’s alone.

Oikawa understands.

But right now Oikawa wishes he would let go because he can see how hard he’s trying to hold on and it’s painful.

"There’s nothing you could’ve done about this," Makki says, voice rough.

"I’m going to go make you something hot to drink and then you can tell me everything-," Oikawa starts, but Makki grips his wrist, fingers still cold, before he can get up, keeping him in place.

"No, wait," he says. He takes a deep breath, lets go of Oikawa and hugs the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "If I don’t say it now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to later."

Oikawa settles back down on the couch, waits patiently for Makki to speak, knowing that it’s better to stay silent and give his friend the time to collect his thoughts.

Makki stares down at his hands, voice low and mumbled, his chin tucked down into the blanket, but Oikawa can hear the words clearly.

"I’m sure you and Iwaizumi knew about Matsukawa and I back in high school, our senior year," he starts, picking at an invisible thread. 

His eyes flicker up and Oikawa nods. He remembers Iwaizumi pulling him to the side one night after practice, voicing things they had both noticed regarding their other two friends.

"It’s not like we tried to keep it a secret or anything," Makki clarifies, looking back down, a light dusting of pink on his cheeks. "It wasn’t a real relationship, we agreed there would be no strings, no emotions."

Makki’s mouth twitches up, a smile that is half-bitter, half-sweet, like black coffee with sugar.

"It was fine, there were no arguments, no complicated feelings, nothing that would come with actually dating, and we were still friends, still the same as we’d always been ever since elementary school. And when we graduated, I thought it would end. We were going to two different universities so why wouldn’t it?"

Oikawa silently agrees. Long-distance relationships were hard and that was when the two people were emotionally-invested. Friends with benefits would more than likely end with space.

"But Matsukawa was open to continuing it, and I decided to go along. I can’t remember why I agreed," Makki murmurs. "I just remember thinking that it was comfortable, something that I would be willing to continue, something that had become a habit."

Makki shifts on the couch, worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

"And then one day, I woke up and realized that an entire year and a half had passed, that every relationship I had tried to have had been inevitably broken off, and that I had just spent a month’s worth of work money the night before to buy a plane ticket to go see Matsukawa that weekend."

Oikawa can only watch as Makki closes his eyes, grits his teeth, spits out the next words, afraid to say anything because it might break Makki from his focus on telling his story.

"One week at the end of our junior year, Matsukawa shows up. A surprise visit. We had both been so busy that we hadn’t seen each other for a few months. And I woke up for real this time. It was too much. He kissed me when there was no reason to, I held his hand even though we were just making dinner. Everything had changed somewhere in that span of four years and I wasn’t ready for what it meant. And the worst part was that we were still pretending."

Makki’s eyes open, strong lines of resolve in his face.

"So I broke it off," he says.

"And what happened last night?" Oikawa asks finally, knowing where this is going.

He can see it in Makki’s eyes, realizes he saw it that night on the street outside of the grocery store but hadn’t given it enough thought.

"I realized I love him," Makki says quietly, shoulders curving inwards, eyes trained on the floor. He looks young, like a child, lost, his face vulnerable when he looks up. "And I should’ve told him, but I was the one who cut everything off, who avoided him for months. He had no reason to listen to me."

Oikawa’s heart clenches and he reaches under the blanket to squeeze Makki’s hand.

"He left last night with some girl, said not to wait up," Makki says breathlessly, words rushed like he’s trying not to remember too much. "But I did. I sat there and waited and waited and hated myself for letting this happen. And when he came home this morning I was so angry at myself that I took it out on him. I asked him why we had ever decided to do what we did, I asked him why he had kept it going even after we graduated high school. I yelled at him, told him that he had put too much into something that was supposed to be effortless, that he had ruined our friendship."

Makki’s voice breaks on the last word.

"Oh Makki," Oikawa says, and finally, finally Makki lets go, lets his fingers uncurl from where they’ve been digging into the edge, digging into the grass and the dirt and keeping him hanging even though his arms are shaking with the effort and his nails are bleeding, and his face crumples, eyes squeezing shut, and he collapses into the front of Oikawa’s shirt for the second time, taking a shuddering gasp before the tears come.

"I said horrible things," Makki sobs, breath hitching in his chest, Oikawa rubbing circles into his back. "Even though I need him, I said them anyway because I knew they would hurt."

"You were angry," Oikawa says softly. "Everyone says things they don’t mean when they’re mad. Mattsun will understand if you just talk to him about it."

Makki shakes his head, smears tears into Oikawa’s skin, cries harder, shoulders shaking as if there’s a storm trapped inside his ribs, as if it’s breaking him apart from the inside out.

"You didn’t see his face, Oikawa," he says when the tears slow down, when he’s breathing slow and heavy against him, limp and exhausted. 

"I may need him, but he sure as hell doesn’t need me."

"That’s now how you use that."

Kunimi spins around, nearly dropping Oikawa’s coffee maker, fumbling with the piece of machinery in a way that sends Oikawa’s heart into his throat, and for a brief second, he’s sure that he’s going to have to buy a new one.

But Kunimi sets it back down onto the counter safely, turns around to cross his arms over his chest, and glares at Oikawa.

"I wasn’t trying to use it," he counters, in a similar manner to a child defending themselves after breaking something they weren’t supposed to touch. "I was just looking."

Oikawa hums noncommittally, moves to open the fridge, tries to relax in the incredibly tense atmosphere that is filling his small kitchen with dark clouds.

"Where’s Suga?" he asks, rummaging through the new groceries he had gotten yesterday afternoon and grabbing the eggs.

He can’t see Kunimi’s expression, but he can almost sense the further inward pull of eyebrows, the protectiveness flashing in Kunimi’s eyes.

"I don’t know," he answers, and they both know that’s a lie.

Oikawa knows that Kunimi is probably exactly aware of where Suga is, is aware at every moment because it’s something he imagines anyone who’s lost someone and then found them again does.

He knows that he would if he were in the same situation.

"Are you hungry?" Oikawa asks, choosing to change the subject before Kunimi decides to kill him. He can practically feel the other boy’s menacing stare through the fridge door. "I’m going to make everyone breakfast."

Oikawa closes the door hesitantly, moves past Kunimi to get to the stove, and surveys the number of eggs he has, hoping it’ll be enough for four people.

Makki is taking a nap in Oikawa’s bedroom, forgoing showering due to having gotten zero sleep the night before, and Suga is nowhere in sight, so Oikawa is stuck in the kitchen with someone who would probably rather stab him with one of his own butter knives than thank him.

Oikawa imagines Iwaizumi next to Kunimi and decides that in comparison Iwa-chan looks as harmless as an angry kitten.

The thought makes Oikawa smile slightly as he switches on the burner and grabs a frying pan.

Kunimi hasn’t answered his previous question and Oikawa glances over to the side, only to meet Kunimi’s dark eyes as the other steps closer.

"Why are you doing all of this?" he mutters, pitching his voice low so as not to be overheard, and Oikawa can see bewilderment there in his expression, fueling his suspicion and doubt.

Oikawa thinks carefully about his answer, looking away to crack an egg onto the pan.

He watches the yolk break, watches the yellow seep out over the surface, the shape of the egg imperfect, messy.

At first his urge to help had been for Suga, and it still is.

But now, Oikawa thinks, there’s a little more to it than that, drifting under the surface of everything, spreading and painting his reasons with yellow.

He cracks another egg.

"Because I want to," he finally answers, Kunimi’s burning gaze against the side of his face.

He hopes the other boy can sense the sincerity in his voice. He’s telling the truth, speaking without reservations, as sure of his answer as he’s sure of the fact that the moon is two-hundred and thirty-eight thousand nine-hundred miles from Earth.

It’s become more than just hoping to help someone who had reminded him of himself, someone who had sparked his sympathy.

Oikawa isn’t sure what that completely means right now, but he does know that the realization leaves a pleasant warmth right above his heart, trapped under his ribcage, beating with a second pulse.

Another egg goes into the mix, yellow painting the white.

Kunimi is silent and Oikawa doesn’t look over again.

For a few minutes the only sounds in the kitchen are the sizzle and crack of the eggs, the faint strains of classical music from the apartment next door drifting through the thin walls.

"How much did he tell you?"

Kunimi’s voice is quieter now, less accusing, but Oikawa can still sense the shadows of distrust.

Oikawa does glance over then, confused, and Kunimi sees his expression and scowls.

"I didn’t have time to talk to him last night," he says defensively.

Oikawa knows that Suga is going to tell Kunimi the truth sooner or later, so he turns his attention back to cooking and says, "Almost everything. He told me about where you guys came from, what happened to make you leave, why you were there in the first place."

As soon as the last part of that sentence leaves Oikawa’s mouth, Kunimi is inhaling, sharp and quick.

"He told you what we can do?" he asks, voice serious and rushed.

Oikawa is taken aback at the shock in Kunimi’s tone, confused once again because Kunimi had known last night that Suga had shared most of their story with him.

"He showed me what he can do," he admits, pausing in his cooking to gauge Kunimi’s reaction.

It’s not at all what he’s expecting.

Kunimi’s eyes are large, no room for anything but astonishment in the dark irises, and he seems speechless, mouth opening and closing without words.

Now that Oikawa thinks about it though, Suga hadn’t said anything about the abilities of the others, not even when he had been describing them yesterday before they went out.

"What is it-," Oikawa starts, stomach dipping for no reason besides Kunimi’s expression.

Kunimi blinks a few times and then talks almost as if he’s thinking out loud, his inhibitions about interacting with Oikawa seemingly knocked to the side for the moment.

"Our abilities, they- what he showed you is-," Kunimi breaks off, struggling to find the right words.

He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, squeezes his eyes shut and then tries again.

"It’s like a part of our souls, and just as precious. We didn’t even tell each other about what we each could do for years, not until we had built trust and love and respect between us. And he just showed you as if it were nothing. He-"

There’s movement then in Oikawa’s peripheral vision, closer to the living room, and he glances over to see Suga entering the kitchen, yawning a little as if he’s just gotten up although his hair looks less messy than it had earlier.

Kunimi’s mouth snaps shut but his eyes stay on Oikawa’s, silently assessing him with a look Oikawa can’t read.

Oikawa ends up burning the eggs.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of breakfast and washing dishes and watching tv, of doing laundry and Makki emerging from Oikawa’s room a little before dinner, looking a lot more well-rested than he had before, a little of his usual lightheartedness coming through as he mercilessly teases Suga for wearing yet another one of Oikawa’s alien t-shirts.

The apartment is warm and full of noise, the four of them moving around each other as if they’ve been living together for years instead of for less than a day.

By the time the sun is setting behind the city, Makki is straddling a kitchen chair backwards, talking to Suga as he helps Oikawa with dinner, and Kunimi is sprawled across the couch in the living room, watching something on the tv, and everything has seemed to slow down for a moment, like everyone’s releasing a collective breath that they had all been holding.

Suga banters with Makki, matching him word for word while he chops carrots until Makki is looking at him with newfound respect, and Oikawa hides a grin behind a fist at the awe in his friend’s eyes.

Kunimi, Oikawa has figured out already, has a fascination for sweet things, and thanks him, still quietly and still a little bit bitten out, when Oikawa leaves the kitchen to bring him a mug of milk that he’s heated in the microwave and added sugar to.

He tries to ignore that look that Kunimi’s been giving him all day since this morning, that one that looks like the other boy is trying to find something, like he’s trying to see something in Oikawa but he’s not sure what he’s looking for.

When Oikawa steps back into the kitchen, he finds Suga looking at him with a different expression, warm eyes and a soft smile that are directed solely at him that says he saw what Oikawa did, before he turns away to continue preparing the vegetables, saying something to Makki that Oikawa misses because he’s too focused on the hard thump his heart just gave, heat flushing across the back of his neck.

He can’t help but think of Kunimi’s words from earlier then, while he drops plum-colored soba noodles into a pot of boiling water.

_"It’s like a part of our souls, and just as precious."_

Oikawa thinks about Suga sitting in his living room floor, lit up by stars that shimmered in his sterling hair and in the golden depths of his eyes, and wonders what he had been thinking at that moment.

He wonders if he’s ever going to see it again.

The noodles swirl around in Oikawa’s bowl, topped by thin slices of lettuce, bright orange carrots, and green onions, and a sauce that Suga had made using rice vinegar, soy sauce, honey, brown sugar, sesame oil, sesame seeds, and copious amounts of red chili paste.

Unlike Kunimi, Suga has more of a taste for spicy food than sweet, and while everyone else turns red and blinks back tears, he seems to be happily unaffected, eating contentedly and curled up in the armchair.

"Is this usually how hot his food is?" Makki rasps to Kunimi, cheeks red and eyes glassy.

Oikawa would laugh but he can’t feel his throat or his mouth.

Kunimi swipes at his eyes and sets his bowl down on the coffee table.

Suga had filled him in on the Futakuchi and his brother story, but Oikawa can tell that Kunimi isn’t pretending when he nods to Makki’s question, grimacing and taking a large swallow of water from the glass in front of him.

He’s been the smart one out of the three of them and has been taking small, measured bites.

"Is it too much?" Suga asks sheepishly, stirring his noodles around, miraculously unfazed except for the faint flush of embarrassment on his face.

"It’s good," Oikawa tries to assure him because despite it feeling like he’s swallowing volcano fire, the food is delicious. But his words get caught halfway out of his throat, coming out mangled, and he ends up coughing, which only makes the burn worse.

Makki snorts in amusement, which is a bad move.

"Fuck," he whimpers, putting his bowl down too and making a beeline for the kitchen, tears rolling down his face as he gasps.

Oikawa can hear him pushing things violently out of the way before he seems to find what he’s looking for.

"Ew, pour some in a glass and drink it," Oikawa complains hoarsely as soon as Makki appears back in the living room with the entire milk carton, drinking from it shamelessly. "Everyone else has to drink from that too."

Makki makes a face at him from above the carton, pulling away and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I didn’t have time to find a glass," he says dramatically. "My beautiful, skilled mouth was in perilous danger."

Oikawa pulls a face this time, giving Suga a wounded look when the other laughs at Makki’s horrible humor.

"Please don’t encourage him, Su-," Oikawa starts, catching his mistake quickly and coughing again to cover up for it. 

"Futakuchi-chan," he finishes, catching Suga’s eye and resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at him when the other raises an eyebrow at him quickly, teasing because he heard it too.

Makki throws himself onto the couch, surprising Kunimi who’s sharing it with him, and sets the milk amongst all of the other dishes on the coffee table before clapping his hands.

"Okay, so since we still have some time before Futakuchi Jr.’s bedtime," he says grinning, ignoring Kunimi’s disgruntled look, "I propose a game."

Oikawa opens his mouth to say no, already sensing that this is going in a bad direction, but Makki interrupts him.

"And the game I propose," he says, looking at Oikawa like he knows exactly what he’s doing, "is truth or dare."

"We’re not five, Makki," Oikawa deadpans, returning Makki’s mischievous look with one that says don’t you dare, and Kunimi speaks up then.

"I’m tired, so I’m going to have to pass on whatever that game is," he announces, Oikawa and Suga both wincing at his phrasing, but Makki doesn’t seem to notice, only pouting at Kunimi, who ignores him and carries his bowl and glass to the sink before returning to the living room.

He leans down next to Suga and says something quietly, Suga nodding and giving him a reassuring smile, and then Kunimi is turning to head back to the guest bedroom.

He stops on the way, hesitates next to where Oikawa is sitting on the floor, rubbing the back of his neck before he meets his gaze.

"Thank you again for the milk earlier," he mumbles, cheeks flushing, eyes not completely meeting Oikawa’s, and before Oikawa can respond or get over his surprise, the other boy is already gone.

Makki turns his pleading gaze onto Suga, who gets out of the armchair to put his own bowl down, the noodles completely gone unlike everyone else’s.

Oikawa tries to shake his head no at Suga behind Makki’s back, waving his hands as much as he can without getting his friend’s attention, but Makki is talking and Suga’s attention is diverted.

"Are you going to play?" he asks, pouting, throwing every ounce of charm into his voice and Oikawa rolls his eyes. "I can’t just play with Captain over here, and I’m sure you’re a lot less grumpy."

Suga’s eyes flit between Makki and Oikawa, who is still trying to tell him to say no with elaborate hand gestures, but Makki’s face seems to convince Suga to stay, because he sits down, shooting Oikawa an apologetic glance.

"I can play for a little bit," he says, and Oikawa is beginning to feel even more like this is a horrible idea when Makki sends him a megawatt smile, pushing Oikawa’s coffee table a little to the side so that they’re all sitting in a loose circle on the floor.

Makki leans forward as if he’s going to share a secret, Suga watching him intently, and Oikawa knows he’s trying to quietly determine the rules of the unknown game.

"Okay, so who wants to go first?" Makki asks, pointing both index fingers at Suga and Oikawa.

"Who decided you could ask first?" Oikawa cuts in, frowning, but it’s half-hearted. The sooner they get this over with the better. Surely Makki isn’t going to ask Suga any personal questions, so Oikawa’s not worried about their secret slipping, but he knows Makki well enough to know that he has something up his sleeve.

"I was the one who wanted to play, so I get first question or dare," Makki defends, crossing his arms over his chest and flashing another smug smile.

"I’ll go first," Oikawa sighs, knowing that Suga will watch his example and follow. "Dare."

"Drink the rest of that in one go," Makki says without hesitation, pointing to Oikawa’s bowl, which is still one-fourth full of the broth left over from the noodles, a few vegetables floating along the top.

Oikawa looks at Makki in horror.

Makki shrugs. "You gotta," he says.

Suga watches with rapt fascination as Oikawa throws Makki a dirty glare and then grabs his bowl, tipping the contents down his throat quickly, trying to swallow around the burn of chili.

He grabs the milk carton right after, not caring about what either Suga or Makki must be thinking while watching him desperately drain the contents, the spice slowly extinguished and dulled until Oikawa can breathe again.

Makki winks at him when he’s done.

"Nice job, Captain," he teases. "A spectacular performance as always."

Oikawa throws him the middle finger, refusing to speak immediately.

He thinks his glasses might be fogging up a little.

When he can finally feel his tongue again, Oikawa looks at Suga, the other boy perched on his knees and obviously trying not to grin at Oikawa’s dare, eyelashes fluttering.

Oikawa can feel his own mouth curve up in response.

"Truth or dare, Futakuchi-kun?" Oikawa asks.

"Dare," Suga answers, voice steady.

Oikawa considers for a moment, looks around the apartment, before he comes up with an idea.

"I dare Futakuchi-kun to dance to the Star Wars theme song," he says cheerfully, and Makki groans next to him.

"You always choose that one," he complains, but Oikawa is focused on Suga’s face and doesn’t reply. The other boy looks embarrassed already, the tips of his ears pink, but Oikawa merely grins at him deviously, producing his cellphone from his sweatpants pocket and pulling up YouTube.

Suga gets up slowly, shoots Oikawa look that says he’ll regret this later, and Oikawa presses play.

After about thirty seconds, Oikawa is already wishing he hadn’t picked this dare, regret being served to him without Suga’s help.

Suga slides across the floor in his socks, doing silly movements that really can’t be called dancing, but as Makki laughs and cheers him on, Oikawa feels his cheeks grow hot, heart beating a little harder, his stomach doing an unexplainable flip every time Suga meets his gaze.

Suga should look ridiculous, wearing clothes that are too big for him including the shirt with "I don’t believe in humans" in huge, green letters across the front, and gliding and twirling across the hardwood floor to the Star Wars theme song, which really isn’t meant to be danced to, but he doesn’t, at least not to Oikawa.

Instead, all Oikawa can focus on is the delicate curve of Suga’s wrist when he raises a hand above his head, the shape of the embarrassed smile that inevitably finds its way onto Suga’s face when Makki wolf-whistles, the graceful edge of a collarbone when Oikawa’s t-shirt slips off of one shoulder a little bit.

By the time it’s over, Suga looks just as flushed as Oikawa feels, sitting down breathlessly and accepting a high-five from Makki weakly.

Makki shoots Oikawa a smirk that the latter chooses to ignore.

For the next fifteen minutes they go around the circle, taking turns and doing harmless truths or dares that either result in laughter or embarrassment or both.

"Okay, last one," Makki concedes when Suga says something about feeling sleepy, and Oikawa breathes inwardly in relief.

He’s not sure why, but Kunimi’s words from earlier keep echoing in his head, and every time he looks at Suga it’s like he’s watching him dance again even though all Suga is doing is sitting there.

Oikawa is ready to crawl into his bed and leave the confusing thoughts for the morning.

It’s Makki’s turn this time and he chooses Suga even though he gives Oikawa a long side-glance before he says anything.

When he does speak, Oikawa feels like someone’s knocked the breath from his lungs, leaving him sputtering.

"I dare you to kiss Oikawa," Makki says smoothly without even batting an eyelash.

Suga seems to choke on the sip of water he had been taking, coughing, and Oikawa turns wide eyes to Makki.

"Very funny, Makki, but-," he starts, heat roaring up the back of his neck, pulse hammering against his wrists.

"A dare is a dare," Makki chirps, and Oikawa punches him in the arm, turning quickly to Suga who looks like he’s just had a heart attack and ignoring Makki’s whine.

"You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, Futakuchi-chan," he says, forcing his voice to stay steady even though his head is spinning. He’s surprised he even used the right name.

Suga nods, avoiding Oikawa’s eyes.

"But Oikawa wouldn’t mind if you did," Makki mumbles quickly but loud enough for everyone to hear, laughing nervously when Oikawa turns to him with murder in his eyes.

Oikawa is getting ready to simultaneously punch Makki in the face and to tell him to choose a different dare, but then there’s a soft brush of lips against his cheek, barely there, a nose bumping into the side of his glasses, the same warmth and sugary sweetness that Oikawa had slept against last night surrounding him for two breathless seconds, and Oikawa is struck silent.

He turns to see Suga nervously biting his lower lip, face and neck completely covered in a hard blush, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up and then back down, sheepish.

"He didn’t say where," he says, the words attempting to sound witty but coming out more mortified than anything.

Makki is silent beside Oikawa, but before Oikawa can say anything or clear the stars from his mind, Suga is standing up, saying that he’ll see them in the morning and getting out a quick goodnight before he turns and promptly disappears down the hallway.

For a few seconds, the living room is quiet.

"Yo, earth to Oikawa," Makki says, smug satisfaction practically dripping from his voice, and Oikawa remembers when Makki had said the same thing that night that Oikawa had been staring out of a rain-covered window, surrounded by the greasy, comforting aromas of Chinese food, searching for a soft smile in the crowd.

He swallows hard, blinks a few times, and readjusts his glasses.

And then he turns to Makki, tackling his friend to the floor, a second pulse beating in time with his heart.


	12. glimmering strings and the chaos of shattering

They need a better plan.

It had been foolish to think that they could find all of Suga’s lost family just by walking the city streets for a couple hours at a time. There’s too much space, too many people, too many buildings and alleyways and places to hide.

Kunimi had been a fluke, like when the vending machine gave you two bags of chips when you only paid for one; although Oikawa thinks that that analogy is a little too unremarkable to really describe what had happened, too unspectacular to characterize Kunimi bursting into a college party kitchen.

Oikawa stares wide-eyed up at the ceiling of his bedroom, listens to Makki breathe in and out beside him, fast asleep, lets his eyes trace over the edges of the glow-in-the-dark stars he had plastered over every square inch a few days after he had moved in.

It’s early on Monday morning, the room painted in light grays and blues, muted but full of endless possibilities.

Oikawa gets up, careful not to wake Makki, who breathes out a sigh when the weight of the bed shifts and turns onto his side, huddling farther under the covers.

There had been a call from Iwaizumi late last night, asking Oikawa if Makki was with him and if he was okay before he revealed that he had received a call from Mattsun, who had, "sounded like shit and kept asking if Makki had come here."

Despite this, however, there had been no call from Mattsun after that, and Oikawa had been met with an excuse of going to bed early and a shut bathroom door when he had tried to ask Makki to call Mattsun.

The air is cold, and the sweater that Oikawa pulls on isn’t thick enough to completely break what feels like a thin layer of ice over his skin, but he tiptoes out of his room anyway, shutting the door quietly behind him and crossing the hall to the bathroom.

A familiar figure is already in the kitchen when Oikawa walks in a few minutes later, leaning against the countertop and staring out the window as if life’s secrets are hidden in the phosphorescence of the streetlights outside or in the glittering facets of light spilling from the windows of Crow’s Coffee, which is apparently open even though it’s six in the morning.

"Hey," Oikawa says, voice breaking the blue smoke quiet.

Suga jerks a bit, pulled from his thoughts, but his face relaxes quickly, and he smiles, all lips, no teeth.

"Good morning," he greets, fingers wrapped around a mug, and Oikawa thinks of large sweaters and delicate fingers and the gentle touch of a mouth to his cheek.

Clearing his throat, Oikawa turns his attention to outside the window, watches the people who are functioning at this time of the morning drift by, fleeting shapes in the dark that still covers the streets, and he thinks of wayward spirits, of everyone’s lives dancing around each other, tangling or maybe missing each other completely.

"Can’t sleep?" he asks when he convinces himself that the warmth along the back of his neck is just due to his sweater finally doing its job.

"Yeah," Suga says, voice airy enough that Oikawa knows he’s faking the lightheartedness because it’s a just a little too much. "Also Kunimi is a horrible person to share a bed with. He kicks."

_"You could sleep in my bed,"_ Oikawa thinks without actually thinking, right before he realizes how it sounds. He hadn’t meant the thought like that, had thought it with the intention of him sleeping on the couch, but nevertheless, his cheeks heat up and he curses his ability to blush easily.

The recent, constant flushing is starting to get annoying.

"Oikawa?"

Oikawa snaps out of his thoughts to find Suga looking at him with something close to worry in his eyes and realizes that the other must’ve asked him a question.

"I asked why you’re up this early," Suga repeats.

"Sorry," Oikawa answers, and then, "Couldn’t sleep." 

He shrugs, rummages in the small drawer by the fridge that he keeps most of his tea in, inhaling the fresh, almost elusive scent of white tea, the floral lightness of oolong tea, the dark press of black tea with honey-like undertones, the heavier, richer, comforting smell of green tea. They seem to lull him back into a sleep-like state, easing the dull headache that sometimes came with waking up too early.

Suga is quiet as the water boils, as Oikawa pours a little milk into his tea, watches the wisps of steam rise from the cup and evaporate into the air, as Oikawa settles his weight against the island counter, directly across from Suga and takes the first sip, relishing the slight burn against his tongue.

It’s quiet, but comfortable, for the next twenty minutes, and Oikawa feels as if the two of them are caught in some world between worlds, a place that is full of light gray shadows and wisps of pale sapphire and violet light, shimmering gold the only solid color, spilling and bleeding onto the streets and highlighting the curve of a passerby’s wrist, the fluttering length of their eyelashes, illuminating just barely the push and pull of life that thrums through the city like a heartbeat, giving hints and dropping secrets, dangling shining threads that you can grasp and follow, or that you can ignore in the search for something else, something different.

He looks at Suga when the other has turned his attention to back outside the window, finds the black band around his wrist, follows the line of his arm up to his shoulder, to the curve of his neck, to the gentle lilt of his mouth and the shine of his eyes and wonders.

"What was your favorite thing to do?" Oikawa asks, suddenly needing to know the answer to at least one of the questions in his head, wanting to hear the answer.

Suga turns to look at him, half of his face caught in the shadows of the kitchen, pale blue and purple, the other illuminated by the city, shimmering gold.

He knows what Oikawa is asking, knows without having to ask, and his gaze turns thoughtful, contemplative, eyes soft enough to be sad.

And here in the small space between them, here in the time that can’t be called day or night, here amongst the gray glittering with colors and endless possibilities, Suga talks, voice holding much more than the words spilling from his lips like flower petals.

"I liked to look at the sky," he says, words clear and resounding with truth. "I liked to sneak up to the roof, lie down, watch it change. Rain, sun, clouds, stars, all of it."

Oikawa thinks of stars, remembers stars, millions of them, remembers lying on his back and listening to Iwaizumi’s voice beside him, low and gentle and as familiar and important as his own heartbeat, remembers the salty taste of tears on his lips.

_"You matter, Tooru. Do you look up at the sky, see all of those stars, and ever think that any one of them is less important, less needed than the others? Do you think that just one of them would be able to light up all of that darkness by itself?"_

"I liked to imagine that my parents were looking at the same sky, just with different things in it. Maybe sometimes they would glance up and see the stars and think of me."

Suga’s voice is quiet and gentle, loving almost, no trace of the bitterness or anger Oikawa might’ve expected it to hold.

As if he can read his thoughts, Suga meets his eyes, lights, stars, something Oikawa can’t place, glittering in them, even in the one still cloaked with gray.

"I don’t hate them," he says, feather-soft. "I don’t resent them for leaving me, for letting me go. They must’ve loved me, they must still love me, because I can feel it, I can remember it. The brush of my mother’s fingers through my hair, my father’s voice, their smiles, their eyes. There has to be more to them than what I was told, but I never asked because they did what they did to protect me, and they gave me a new family by doing it."

Suga’s not looking at Oikawa anymore, not really, and Oikawa doesn’t dare break him from this.

He watches Suga’s eyes flash with the memories of a different time, of a different place, as if he can see them playing out in the space just above Oikawa’s right shoulder.

"Beautiful but dangerous," Suga finishes, flower petals floating to the floor and settling, delicate and bright. "But also loved."

His voice is the lingering heat of a hand, of fingers intertwined and palms pressed together, even after it’s let go, the fleeting impression of a smile, the edge of it pressed into a heart like a flower between the pages of a book, the memory of words spoken as lips brushed across a forehead, the weight and sweet trace of them still hovering in the air.

Oikawa reaches across the gap between them, lets his fingers touch the softness of Suga’s cheek, brushes away the tear that has slipped silently down his face, and Suga’s eyes flicker up to his, wide and surprised, as if he hadn’t been aware of it until now, as if he didn’t realize that more had followed quickly, little bursts of shooting stars leaving their glimmering tracks on his skin.

"Suga," Oikawa starts, letting his hand linger, just barely touching him, just close enough to feel warmth but far enough away for Suga to move away if he wants to, "you’re everything but dangerous."

Suga blinks once, twice, lets heat bloom across his face, lets Oikawa’s words cover his skin, and then lets his head lean more into Oikawa’s touch, his wet cheek brushing against Oikawa’s palm, and Oikawa tries to put a word to the feeling erupting in his chest, to the ache he feels there, but he can’t.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but his body seems to move on its own accord, thumb swiping at the moisture under Suga’s left eye, tracing over the beauty mark there that’s outlined in gold as the light outside the kitchen window shifts, turns into something lighter, that time of half-day, half-night slowly disappearing into the air like the steam from Oikawa’s mug.

Oikawa feels the words bubble up in his throat when Suga closes his eyes and relaxes further into the feel of Oikawa’s hand curved around the side of his face, his hair tickling the tips of Oikawa’s fingers when he slides them to curl just behind Suga’s ear, still thumbing slowly at the delicate skin just under Suga’s eye.

"Suga-," he starts, the words right there, ready to fall, ready to stamp the air with their presence.

The slam of a door from somewhere in the building breaks the moment, shatters the quiet and has Suga jumping at the noise, Oikawa’s hand dropping, the words he had been so close to speaking disappearing with the rest of the pale colors that had painted their skin moments before, the rest of the glimmering strings of gold and the shadows that had encompassed them right before the sun rose completely, that half-world gone now, leaving room for rays of sunlight to stream into the kitchen and life to spring back into regular motion.

It’s like a spell has been broken, Suga turning to set his mug down on the counter so that he can surreptitiously wipe at his face, the back of his neck bright red, and Oikawa clears his throat, readjusts his glasses, a habit that appears when he’s determined or nervous, and takes a sip of his tea, which is now cold.

He wonders if he should go ahead and say what he had been about to, to ask, even though the idea of what the answer might be sets him on edge, opens a space right near his feet that he could easily tumble into, but that is large and deep and unpredictable.

So he doesn’t, not even when Suga turns back around and looks at him from under lowered eyelashes, a sheepish quirk to his mouth, not even when Oikawa taps the back of his hand with two fingers and tries to convey with his own expression that he’s glad that Suga shared that with him, that he understands.

Instead the words stay there, trapped, waiting for the right moment, lifeless until Oikawa decides to breathe sound and color into them.

_"Why did you choose me?"_

"Sweet dreams?" Makki asks when he passes by Oikawa in the hallway around 8:00 a.m., hair still not brushed and the lines from one of Oikawa’s pillows imprinted on his left cheek, but a shit-eating grin firmly in place despite all of that.

Oikawa grins at him sweetly.

"I wouldn’t know. You snore like someone’s shoved a volleyball down your throat."

Makki’s expression doesn’t waver.

"Or you were just having trouble falling asleep because you couldn’t get Futakuchi’s fine ass- ouch!"

Makki bounces around the small space holding his shin where Oikawa has placed a well-aimed kick since his arms are full of clean laundry.

"Shut up," Oikawa hisses, peering over the mountain he’s carrying for any signs of Suga, or worse, Kunimi.

"Rude," Makki retorts petulantly, grabbing a sock from the pile and whacking Oikawa in the face with it.

"Hey!" Oikawa protests, his glasses now crooked on his nose, but Makki only hits him again, this time catching his ear.

"I’m only trying to help you with your pitiful love life," Makki exclaims, loud enough that there’s no doubt the other two in Oikawa’s apartment heard, along with probably a few of Oikawa’s neighbors.

Oikawa shuffles past him, back to the wall, trying to dodge the now frequent attacks Makki is making at him with the piece of clothing while laughing maniacally, Oikawa finally retreating into his bedroom and slamming the door shut with his foot before he leans against it, breathless, eyes squeezed shut.

A few moments later he hears the bathroom door click shut and the water in the shower start running, and he relaxes his weight against the door.

"What are you doing?"

Oikawa screams, more high-pitched than he’d like to admit, dropping the laundry, eyes flying open.

Kunimi is standing in the middle of his bedroom, a lollipop (when had he gotten that? Oikawa’s pretty sure he doesn’t have lollipops anywhere in the apartment) stuck in his mouth so his voice comes out a little garbled, also still sleepy and in a disarray, his black bangs falling into his face in a way that might’ve been adorable if Oikawa didn’t think that Kunimi was actively researching the most efficient way to kill him and hide his body.

"Wha- what, what-," Oikawa tries to say, holding a hand to his racing heart and breathing hard, partly from Makki’s unwarranted sock attack in the hallway, but mostly from Kunimi popping out of nowhere like some kind of freaky, sugar-loving ghost.

Kunimi raises an eyebrow at Oikawa’s sputtering, somehow managing to look disdainful and judgmental even with a cherry-red sucker stuffed into his mouth.

Oikawa closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath, composing himself.

He opens his eyes after a few seconds.

"What are you doing in here?" he gets out, proud that his voice is much more steady and a little deeper.

Kunimi shrugs, pulling the sucker from his mouth with a loud and annoying pop.

"I was looking for Suga," he supplies unhelpfully.

Oikawa blinks at him, waiting for more.

When it doesn’t come, Kunimi returning the stare with one of equal intensity, Oikawa rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs long-sufferingly, stepping over the clothes he dropped.

"So you were looking for Suga," he says, "and you thought for some reason that he might be in here, and then, when he wasn’t, you decided to stay and- where on earth did you get that?"

Kunimi blinks at him innocently, the lollipop clacking against his teeth infuriatingly, and Oikawa knows that Kunimi knows exactly what he’s doing because there’s a sparkle of satisfied smugness in those dark eyes.

"Makki," Kunimi answers from around the lollipop, his lips and tongue now just as red.

"Okay," Oikawa says because he doesn’t know what else to say, and before he can tell Kunimi to get out of his room, the other boy brushes by him, the sticky, sweet scent of strawberry following.

Once the door closes again, Oikawa turns to look at the mess on his floor, still bewildered.

"What?" he says thirty seconds too late.

"We’ll be back in a couple of hours," Oikawa says from the front door, yanking on boots and grabbing a coat.

Suga is already dressed, waiting patiently, Oikawa’s keys in a gloved hand.

"Okay," Makki sing-songs from where he’s sprawled across the couch, flipping through the tv channels. 

Kunimi looks mildly uncomfortable where Makki has his legs thrown over his lap, but he doesn’t move, and Oikawa thinks it’s unfair that all Makki had to do was give Kunimi a lollipop for the other boy to not glare at him every second he got the chance to.

"Don’t have too much fun you two," Makki adds, being an asshole and waggling his eyebrows suggestively at Suga, who, to Oikawa’s relief and slight pleasure, seems to have just as much of a problem with blushing and promptly turns red.

They ignore the catcalls when Suga grabs Oikawa’s hand and pulls him through the door, and Oikawa resists the urge to chuckle when Suga drops it in embarrassment right after they’ve locked the apartment behind them.

He can’t see Suga’s expression because of the scarf covering his nose and mouth, and because of the same purple beanie from before that’s tugged down over his hair, but the skin right under his eyes, over the bridge of his nose, is still flushed, and Oikawa grins into the collar of his coat.

"He’s just teasing," Oikawa assures Suga as they take the stairs down to the bustling street because, it turns out, neither of them are too fond of the elevator. He doesn’t want Suga to feel uncomfortable by it, doesn’t know if the other boy is taking Makki too seriously.

"I know," Suga answers, peeking up at Oikawa from under the hat, eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. He looks less flustered now, but also a little more nervous.

Oikawa finds out why once they reach the bottom of the two flights of stairs.

"I’m sorry if what I did last night made you uncomfortable," Suga blurts, and it takes Oikawa one second, two seconds, three seconds to register that he’s talking about the kiss. "I just thought-"

"I didn’t mind," Oikawa stammers out before he inwardly curses himself for interrupting whatever Suga had been about to say, and also for sounding super creepy and like an embarrassed middle schooler trying to confess.

Oikawa doesn’t stammer. It just doesn’t happen, no matter how many girls or boys he’s sweet-talked, no matter what they looked like or how forward they were.

But Suga doesn’t seem to mind if his eyes crinkling up into a grin are anything to go by, and Oikawa doesn’t even try to stop the irregular beat his heart makes this time, butterflies swooping through his stomach.

"Good," is all Suga says, his blush gone, eyes bright with a mischief that is too scarily similar to Makki’s.

Oikawa acts without really thinking, the only thought in his head being that he wants Suga to be the flustered one for once, that he needs to get it together before he humiliates himself even more, but the moment his lips push against Suga’s cheek, his brain short-circuits.

It’s soft and warm and _soft_ , and Oikawa can smell shampoo and something like cinnamon and black tea, and then the lingering scent of cherry when Suga inhales sharply because Makki had given Suga a lollipop too at some point, and his hair is tickling Oikawa’s forehead and he’s so close Oikawa imagines he can feel the thrum of Suga’s pulse at his neck.

All of it disappears after a brief three seconds when Oikawa pulls away, and he’s surprised at how disappointed he feels, but being able to see the new explosion of a flush across Suga’s cheekbones makes it worth it.

"Wha-," Suga sputters out, turning even more red when Oikawa smirks down at him.

"Now we’re even," Oikawa explains, and if his voice is a little too breathy to sound as confident as he had wanted it too, then that’s okay.

After three hours of walking, Oikawa decides that it’s probably a good idea to head home.

Kunimi hadn’t come along only because Suga had said it was too dangerous to have both of them out together, that it made them a bigger target.

But Oikawa is thinking about taking Kunimi out next time only because Suga seems to shrink in on himself the longer they’re out, like a flower wilting, as if the city is sucking the energy out of him, using it to power the lights and the subways and the noise.

"Suga-chan, I was thinking," Oikawa starts as they near the road that leads to Oikawa’s apartment.

"Uh-oh," Suga teases even though his voice is tired and fragile again, like it was that night before they went to Makki and Mattsun’s, and Oikawa whacks him in the arm, acting offended, if only to distract Suga from his own thoughts.

"Mean, Suga-chan. You sound like Iwa-chan, which is terrifying since you only met him for a second."

Suga laughs lightly, hands shoved into his pockets as they walk down the sidewalk slowly.

"Anyway, I was thinking, we need a better plan," Oikawa continues, staring up at the sky and blowing his breath out in a puff of white air.

Suga looks at him curiously, and Oikawa shrugs.

"I’ve been thinking all day, and I haven’t come up with anything solid yet, but we definitely need to brainstorm and figure out a faster way to search the city," Oikawa says, feeling the sharp edge of frustration in his chest at not being able to produce anything of value yet.

He’s gone through plans in his mind, found loopholes, thrown them away, started again, at least a hundred times today.

Suga nods, kicking at the ground with a shoe.

"I’ve been thinking too," he admits, "but nothing seems good enough."

They fall silent again, the sky above them turning gray and filling with clouds as they turn onto Oikawa’s street, the wind picking up.

Oikawa’s eye catches the edge of Crow’s Coffee’s as they get close enough to see Oikawa’s apartment building, the café warm and inviting amongst the steel gray clouds and the black asphalt and Suga’s downturned mouth, and he grabs Suga’s hand on a whim, tugging him across the street.

"Oikawa, what are you doing?" Suga asks, curiosity coloring his voice, his fingers tightening subconsciously around Oikawa’s grip.

"You’ll love this, trust me," Oikawa throws over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of a familiar barista through the glass as soon as he reaches the front door.

Oikawa turns around before opening it, Suga almost stumbling into his chest at the abrupt stop, and Oikawa grins down at him.

"Okay, close your eyes," he instructs, but Suga doesn’t do so immediately, instead peering up at Oikawa’s face suspiciously, eyes narrowed under his hat, his scarf slipping down a little to reveal a red nose.

"You don’t trust me, Suga-chan?" Oikawa asks in disbelief, swinging their still joined hands between him playfully, and Suga laughs, lets his eyes fall closed easily in answer.

Oikawa pauses for a moment, watches the light from inside the café play over Suga’s features, thinks, for some reason, of the night Suga had slipped into his apartment through his window, and curls his fingers just the tiniest bit tighter around Suga’s.

Suga starts to crack an eye open in curiosity, but Oikawa clamps a hand over his eyes quickly.

"Uh-uh, Suga-chan, no peeking," he says seriously, opening the front door and listening to the delicate tinkle of the bell that signals their arrival.

They shuffle in, hit by warmth, and Oikawa leads Suga slowly up to the counter, making sure to avoid tangling Suga’s legs in the umbrella bucket by the front door.

Daichi is there, Kuroo right behind him, the two busy with customers, rushing between machines and wielding glass bottles of flavored syrups and canisters of whipped cream, shouting out names when an order is ready and moving around each other with the practiced ease that comes with years of working with someone, with years of knowing them.

Suga leans into Oikawa’s side, hooks an arm around Oikawa’s free one, probably because it must be easier since he can’t see where he’s going, Oikawa’s hand still over his eyes, and Oikawa welcomes the extra warmth, shivering still as the last shards of ice melt from his skin and drip down his spine.

They’re getting weird looks, and Suga has started to giggle, his breath puffing up out of the scarf and hitting Oikawa’s palm, but Oikawa maintains his position, grinning because he can’t help it, not even when it’s their turn to order and Daichi looks at him first in recognition and then in confusion, Kuroo popping up and raising an eyebrow at the two of them.

"Okay, I’m not against role-play or anything," Kuroo starts, peering curiously at Suga, "but this looks weird."

Daichi throws an elbow into Kuroo’s ribs.

"Hello, Oikawa," he greets as Kuroo wheezes dramatically behind him for about five seconds, quickly hooking a chin over Daichi’s shoulder when he realizes he’s not getting the attention he wants.

Daichi pushes his face away with a palm, pulling a disgusted face when Kuroo’s tongue darts out, trying to lick him despite the very public setting.

"Stop it," Daichi huffs, but Oikawa sees the grin flash across his face when he turns his attention back to him and Suga.

"What can I get for you and your friend?" Daichi asks politely, voice only a little dubious on the word "friend", and Oikawa silently commends him in his head.

"Ummm, just a regular coffee for me, and for Futakuchi-chan," Oikawa answers, peering sideways and down at Suga’s face as he laughs again under his scarf, eyelashes tickling Oikawa’s palm, "probably just something non-caffeinated?"

Suga hums thoughtfully, Daichi maintaining a straight face despite the situation, and then says, "Yeah, no caffeine is probably best."

His tone is lilting, amused, carrying the glowing warmth that comes with sharing a secret, a tie between them, different from the glimmering strings from this morning, the shining threads of people’s lives, all different colors, different sizes. A secret is thinner, more delicate, neon blue or platinum gold, bright colors that sometimes hurt to look at, but that can also be beautiful, and Oikawa can feel the other end of the string, wrapped around his wrist and sending little sparks of warmth through his veins.

"We have this drink that a lot of the kids like here," Daichi offers thoughtfully. "It’s steamed milk with cinnamon and honey, if that sounds good to you."

He directs the last sentence towards Suga, who, despite still not being able to see, nods.

"That sounds great, thanks."

Oikawa hums under his breath, thinking.

"Actually, Dai-chan," he adds as Daichi starts to turn away to make their orders, Kuroo pushing buttons on the cash register, "I’ll take that too."

Kuroo laughs a little under his breath, ringing them up, Daichi raising an eyebrow at the sudden nickname, but not commenting.

"Two kids drinks for Oikawa and his 'friend'," Kuroo states, none too quietly and definitely putting more emphasis than necessary on the word "friend". "That’ll be $6.25."

Oikawa detaches his arm from where it’s hooked around Suga’s at the elbow and fishes in his coat pocket for his wallet, awkwardly pulling out the money by wedging the leather between his hip and the counter.

Kuroo watches in amused fascination, his eyes glittering in the soft light of the café, lips curled up into a feline smirk.

"He can’t see that," Oikawa explains confidentially once he’s paid and gotten his wallet back into his pocket, slipping his arm back through Suga’s, who sighs in fake exasperation and leans more heavily into Oikawa’s side, resting a cheek against his shoulder, and no, Oikawa’s stomach does not flip at the sweet gesture.

Oikawa jerks his chin up at the ceiling since Kuroo still looks bewildered, and Kuroo’s eyes light up in understanding.

"Here you go," Daichi says, reappearing at the counter with two steaming cups of frothed milk, a glistening drop of honey caught on the lip of one of them, powdered cinnamon dusted over the top.

Oikawa’s mouth waters, his stomach rumbling from walking so much today in the cold, and Suga shifts next to him, inhaling and then exhaling happily.

"Okay, I guess now’s a good time," Oikawa says, not sure how he’s going to carry two drinks and maneuver Suga through the coffee shop at the same time.

He grabs the cup with the honey on the edge and hands it to Suga, making sure he has a firm grasp around the mug before grabbing his own.

"Ready, Futakuchi-chan?" he asks, Suga already raising his mug to his mouth and taking a sip, shoulders relaxing, and Suga nods eagerly, straightening up a little and waiting for Oikawa to remove his hand.

Oikawa slowly pulls his fingers away, letting Suga blink a few times to adjust to the lighting, watches him gaze around the room, a slow smile spreading across his face as he takes in the fireplace, the armchairs, which are mostly occupied, the barista counter with its plants.

Kuroo flashes Suga a wink when his eyes rest on him and Daichi, and Suga blushes a little and waves in greeting, Daichi giving him a warm smile.

"Kuroo Tetsurou, at your service," Kuroo pronounces extravagantly, like he seems to do everything, shaking Suga’s hand.

"And this grumpy ball of sunshine is Sawamura Daichi," Kuroo adds, elbowing Daichi in the ribs.

Oikawa wonders if they both have matching bruises, imprints of elbows underneath their ribs, given how much they seem to roughhouse with each other.

Maybe he should take notes and give it back to Iwa-chan one of these days.

A flash of Iwaizumi’s face goes through his mind, and Oikawa shudders despite the fact that his best friend is nowhere nearby.

On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t.

Suga shakes Daichi’s hand, thanking him for the drink, and Daichi is very conspicuous when he stomps down on Kuroo’s foot in retaliation.

"Sug- Futakuchi-chan," Oikawa whines, impatient, when it looks like Suga is getting ready to start a full-fledged conversation with the two baristas. "You haven’t even seen the best part yet."

He chances a quick glance upwards for the first time since they came in, finds stars and wings and beautiful, beautiful color. 

Suga looks at Oikawa, bewildered, and all Oikawa does is point up, a smug smile playing across his mouth because he knows Suga is going to be speechless, knows he’s going to stare at the painting with large eyes and then flash one of those blinding smiles that are a whole different kind of beautiful in themselves, preferably aimed at Oikawa, but if not, he’s fine with just being able to witness it, to be close enough to feel it.

Suga’s eyes flicker upwards, catch on the masterpiece hanging above their heads.

And Oikawa was right. Suga’s eyes grow wide, his mouth parts on an exhale, his expression shell-shocked as if he’s seeing the center of the universe right there, right in the middle of a café ceiling.

For a few seconds, Oikawa just watches Suga grow still and stare at the painting, catching Kuroo’s equally-smug grin in his peripheral vision.

But then Suga’s fingers loosen, the mug slipping from his grasp and hitting the floor hard, the shattering of porcelain loud and harsh, the noise seeming to happen faster than the actual breaking of the cup, which seems to explode in slow motion, little fragments and shards of slate gray flying outward in an arc.

Oikawa is at Suga’s side in a second, disregarding the crunch of ceramic under his boots, zeroing in on the flutter of Suga’s fingers, the rapid jump of his pulse at his neck, the expression Oikawa had mistaken as awe now revealing itself as one of disbelief.

"Suga, what is it?" he murmurs, low and quiet, grasping Suga’s hands to still them, close enough to make out the dilation of his pupils, the black almost swallowing his irises.

"Yamaguchi," Suga whispers, as if he’s in a trance, his eyes still fixed on the painting, greedily drinking it in.

He blinks a few times, seems to force himself to look at Oikawa, yanking his gaze away from the stars and the crows, eyes glittering with a million emotions, an electricity buzzing, shining, shimmering over his skin.

"Oikawa, it’s Yamaguchi," he says, breathless, hopeful, completely unaware of the mess at his feet.

Oikawa can’t think of anything to say for a split second, can’t believe that somehow, another stroke of luck has seemed to hit them full force, but he gathers his thoughts quickly, squeezing Suga’s fingers once before letting them go.

"I’ll ask Daichi and Kuroo-," Oikawa immediately starts to say, turning to the two baristas who must be horribly confused by the whole scene if the other customers’ expressions are mirrored on their faces, his heart leaping into his throat, but the shrill ringing of a phone interrupts his thoughts, breaks them apart easily because they’re scattered at the moment, and he reaches into his coat pocket, sees Mattsun’s name and number on the screen.

Oikawa answers, presses the phone to his ear.

"Mattsun," he says, "can I call you back? I’m kind of in the middle of somethi-"

"Oikawa," Mattsun interrupts him, and it’s as if someone’s reached into Oikawa’s stomach and ripped it out, as if someone is squeezing around his heart, trying to crush it until it’s just a sticky, red mess in their palm, pushing the air out of his lungs, all just from hearing his name, and Oikawa goes very, very still.

Because something’s wrong, Oikawa knows immediately, Mattsun’s voice too rough and too desperate and too close to tears, like he’s shattering and he doesn’t know how to hold himself together, just like the mess on the floor under Oikawa’s shoes, unordered chaos.

"Mattsun-," Oikawa tries to say, struggling to get the words out past the tightening of his throat, and they feel like glass shards trying to choke him.

"Oikawa," Mattsun says again, and now he is crying, the broken hitch in his breath sharp and cutting through the phone, the words spilling from his lips in staccato bursts, talking so fast Oikawa can barely keep up, his brain buzzing with alarm but his body paralyzed. "We don’t know where he is- Iwaizumi is going out of his mind, and I just lost him, he just started running- We’ve called the police and called his work, and no one’s seen him since this afternoon- And he’s not answering his phone-"

"Mattsun, slow down," Oikawa chokes out, dread creeping dark fingers up his spine and curling around the back of his neck, and he asks the next question not because he doesn’t already know the answer, but because he needs to hear it, he needs Mattsun to say it for it to be real. "Who is it?"

Mattsun takes a deep shuddering inhale, his breath staticky through the connection, a sob building in the back of his throat.

"Oikawa, it’s Akaashi."

A barely there pause, the shattering of porcelain on the floor, and then.

"Akaashi’s gone."


	13. frost flowers and burning sapphire

Time loses its meaning with panic.

All of the hours, minutes, seconds, breaths, heartbeats, ticks, tocks that count time, that society is constantly wrapped up in, that people take for granted, or that they hold close to their chests, all crash together into nothing, voided, nullified.

The only thing that matters anymore is remembering how to breathe.

Inhale.

Oikawa’s phone hits the floor, bounces once, twice, settles.

Exhale.

Suga is there, words blurry and unfocused, his mouth moving, alarm in the furrow of his eyebrows, in his eyes, in the still quivering hand he places on Oikawa’s shoulder.

Inhale.

The ringing in Oikawa’s ears drowns everything else out.

Exhale.

Iwaizumi needs him, he needs to move, he needs to run.

Inhale.

_"Akaashi’s gone."_

Exhale.

"Tooru!"

Oikawa startles, his shoulders jerking, eyes flashing towards the noise.

Everything slams back into focus, all at once, like someone’s thrown Oikawa through a pane of glass that had been separating him from the real world, the shards shattering and tearing across his skin, painful.

Color bleeds back into the café, sounds rush into his ears like the crash of waves on the beach, the warmth of Suga’s palm seeps through his clothes.

Suga’s fingers are curled into the fabric, knuckles white, and Oikawa registers vaguely that it had been Suga who had nearly shouted his name.

Kuroo is at his elbow suddenly, a frown tugging his usually bright features down.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, Daichi right behind him, a washrag in his hand.

Oikawa is quickly resurfacing, gasping and desperate, bending to snatch up his phone, wincing when his index finger slides across a shard of porcelain, blood welling up, and the call is dropped already, and Oikawa is grabbing Suga’s hand from his shoulder and probably squeezing hard enough for it to hurt.

Suga doesn’t say anything or complain, just returns the grip with equal force.

"Kuroo, Daichi, I’m sorry, but I have to go," Oikawa manages to string together and spit out. "It’s-"

He’s about to say, _"It’s Akaashi."_ , but then he realizes that they don’t know who that is, just another faceless name even though Akaashi’s features are as clear as day in Oikawa’s mind’s eye, a startling splash of slate-blue eyes and messy ink-black hair, and he thinks of Akaashi’s smile, rare but always genuine and usually aimed at Iwaizumi, and someone takes a sledgehammer to his chest.

He’s pulling Suga out the door before waiting for a response, the whispers of the other customers a suffocating buzz around them until they’re outside again, in the cold.

It clears his head, makes him realize that his fingers are going numb from where they’re gripped around Suga’s smaller hand, and he quickly loosens his hold, tugging Suga down the sidewalk as he takes long strides.

His thoughts are broken, fragmented, hard to grasp, floating around the space of his head like planets that are light-years away, all of them orbiting around, _"Akaashi’s gone."_

He needs to find a cab, he needs to call Iwaizumi, he needs to let Makki know but someone’s probably already called him, what if Akaashi is hurt, what if he was in an accident, what if-

"Oikawa?"

Suga’s voice, lost and afraid, breaks through the endless ringing in his head, the ringing that sounds like the shrill scream of his phone whose screen is still dark, a small crack now fissuring down the side, and Oikawa jerks to a sudden stop.

"Akaashi’s missing," he says numbly, the words hanging frozen in the air, blunt and empty, not at all like the sharp, dark edges of fear in his stomach, vivid and consuming.

Suga has moved to stand in front of him, ignoring the people rushing by all around them, the traffic inching by on the street, and he goes rigid as soon as the word "missing" leaves Oikawa’s lips, eyes widening above the scarf he’s hurriedly wrapped back around his face.

"He’s gone," Oikawa clarifies, as if he needs to, fingers spasming in Suga’s grip.

"We need to find a taxi-," Oikawa starts when Suga doesn’t answer, the other seemingly speechless, still staring at Oikawa’s face with an odd expression, something like grief and uncertainty and then determination spilling through his eyes in bright, bright colors.

"Oikawa, I have to go," Suga interrupts him, letting go of his hand.

Oikawa stares at him unseeingly for a breath, the words not really sinking in until Suga takes a step back, and then they hit him full force, knocking the breath from his lungs for the second time in the past ten minutes.

"What?" Oikawa asks even though he heard him the first time, even though the words are still there, crashing through the chaos that already inhabits his head.

"I have to go, lead them in a different direction," Suga says, voice shaking.

He’s upset, the news hitting him just as hard as it had hit Oikawa, his hands shaking now more than they had when he had said Yamaguchi’s name in the coffee shop, and shit, Yamaguchi-

"You have to take care of Kunimi while I’m gone," Suga is saying, blabbering, eyes darting around for the closest possible back alley to take, to disappear down, to leave, and he takes another step back. "If Akaashi is missing then it might mean they’ve figured out something, that they’ve connected us to him somehow, and it’ll be safer if I create a diversion, lead them to a different part of the city. You can’t let Kunimi come after me-"

His words cut off abruptly, breath hitching in his throat, when Oikawa takes two quick, steps forward, both hands coming up to frame Suga’s face, pushing their foreheads together, uncaring of the glances they’re getting.

Suga’s skin is cold against his, his pulse flickering wildly with nerves at the base of his throat, and Oikawa can feel him holding his breath.

"You can’t leave," Oikawa says, trying to get a grip on everything’s that’s happening, trying to hold onto something, anything, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to not completely lose it, out here, in the middle of the street, in the cold that’s somehow gotten into his lungs and crystallized, that’s leaving ice edging in under his ribs, decorating his bones with frost flowers. "You can’t go, Suga, not now, please, I’m begging you."

He wants to say, _"You can’t put yourself in danger like that,"_ but he knows that Suga is willing to do anything, everything to make sure no one gets hurt in this game they’ve all been thrown into, to keep the people he cares about safe, so he swallows those words back down, knowing they won’t help him right now.

Oikawa might’ve been embarrassed by how shaky his voice is in any other circumstance, by how hard he’s breathing, clouds of white rising up between them, but right now, none of that matters.

All that matters is not letting go of the grip he has on Suga, not letting someone else disappear.

Suga makes a small noise in the back of his throat, arms hanging at his sides, a sound of frustration, indecision, fear, eyes searching Oikawa’s, close enough for him to see the flecks of black in the gold.

"I told you this might happen, I shouldn’t have ever-," he says, so quiet Oikawa almost doesn’t catch it despite how close they are, but he can feel the words press almost against his mouth, Suga’s voice breaking, despair tingeing the edges lavender.

"Suga," Oikawa says, fingers tangling in the scarf, sliding up under the hat, begging, knowing that if Suga decides to take one more step back, he’ll have to let go, he’ll have to travel the rest of the way alone, because he’s running out of time and he needs to get to Iwaizumi now. "Please."

Suga’s eyes squeeze shut, almost as if he’s going to cry, but then he takes a deep breath, a gloved hand raising to cover one of Oikawa’s.

"Okay," he breathes, and the feeling of gratitude and affection and relief that sweeps over Oikawa is almost overwhelming in its nature, almost has him pulling Suga to him. 

Instead, he tucks a stray strand of starlight hair back under the beanie, smiles as much as he can manage, whispers, "Thank you."

Suga’s eyes flicker back open, shining under the city lights, but he doesn’t say anything, just taps two fingers against the back of Oikawa’s hand in understanding.

An hour and a half has passed since Mattsun’s call, and they’re just now reaching Iwaizumi and Akaashi’s apartment because of traffic, pulling up outside the well-lit building, Oikawa almost throwing the fare at the taxi driver in his haste to get out.

The elevator up to the fifth floor is too cramped, too bright, suffocating and nauseating, but soon enough him and Suga are spilling out onto Iwaizumi’s floor, Oikawa almost running down the hall to knock rapidly on the front door of the apartment, knuckles catching on the sizable dent one of them had accidentally left a year ago when too much alcohol and an argument about who was the better spiker had gotten out of hand.

There’s the sound of hurried footsteps and then the door is being flung open, Mattsun’s face, red and splotchy, on the other side.

"Oikawa," he says, voice tired, relieved, fragile, and Oikawa steps inside quickly, eyes scanning the space quickly.

The layout of this apartment is as familiar as his own, full of memories of countless movie nights, late morning coffees hunched over the kitchen table after a night out, study sessions that lasted for about an hour before Oikawa pulled out the game console under the tv and convinced Iwaizumi and Akaashi to forget physics and focus on beating him in Mario Kart instead.

The apartment had initially been Iwaizumi’s before he had asked Akaashi to move in around a year and a half ago.

Oikawa looks to Mattsun, who immediately says, "He’s in the bedroom.", and then he’s rushing down the hall that’s to the right of the front door, leaving behind the living room and kitchen with their bright lights and minimalistic decorations, not even bothering to remove his shoes or shrug his coat off.

He vaguely hears Mattsun say something to Suga, Suga’s softer voice following right after, but he’s too distracted to comprehend the words.

The bedroom door is cracked, no lights on inside except for the small lamp in one of the alcoves of the floor-to-ceiling black bookshelf that is situated directly behind the bed, like an unusual headboard.

Iwaizumi is perched on the edge of the neatly-made, white bedcovers, shoulders hunched, his back to the door, facing the windows, his cellphone pressed to his ear.

Oikawa slips in quietly, waits for Iwaizumi to say something to the person on the other end of the line, his voice strained and weary, tight like he’s choking back tears, and then hang up, before he raps softly on the door.

Iwaizumi turns his head, makes eye contact, and Oikawa sees dark circles and red eyes and absolute desperation and he’s crossing the room in quick strides, nearly careening into the white, IKEA desk he had helped Akaashi assemble a few months ago, rounding the bed, and sitting down, pulling his best friend towards him and against his chest.

He lets Iwaizumi wrap tight arms around his waist, fingers digging painfully into his back, lets him bury his face into his chest and exhale, short and shuddering, lets him hold on tight enough for Oikawa to feel like he can’t breathe, as if Iwaizumi can push and shove and meld them into one person, because he knows it’s what Iwaizumi needs, because he’s always done this, ever since they were little, let Iwaizumi press bruises along the edge of his spine, let him squeeze his fingers until they went numb, let him cry, broken and rough and jagged, against him until Iwaizumi relaxed, until he loosened the death grip he had on Oikawa and cried softer into the curve of his neck, gentler, the hot press of tears against skin and the slow, heavy breaths that eventually evened out into ones of exhaustion instead of those of sorrow or anger.

Through it all, Oikawa holds on, keeps Iwaizumi from falling sharp and fast and then shattering into a million pieces at the bottom.

Tonight it feels like Iwaizumi is trying not to take as much as he usually does, rigid and maintaining slow breaths that only waver a little.

Maybe it’s because he’s older, because he’s an adult, because he doesn’t cry over skinned knees or sharp words or spilt milk anymore, but Oikawa knows that no one ever really stops crying over those things, not really.

They just learn to hide it better.

And Oikawa is here to give, to give everything, to fight with every fiber of his body, every ache of his soul, to keep Iwaizumi happy, to lessen the weight on his shoulders and give him something to grab onto, to let him press purple blooms into his skin and transfer some of the pain, all of the pain, to Oikawa.

"Iwa-chan," Oikawa says, voice gentle and slow and willing to give everything.

And that’s all it takes, Iwaizumi collapsing, piece by piece like a house built out of matchsticks, sparking and catching fire and burning, crying and gasping and trying to force the smoke from his lungs.

Oikawa gives everything, and Iwaizumi takes.

Makki has arrived by the time Oikawa and Iwaizumi emerge into the living room, Kunimi with him.

The mood is dark and apprehensive, Suga perched on the love seat with Kunimi by his side, his hands clasped in his lap so tightly his knuckles are white, the veins in his arms prominent, steel blue vines that branch and twist down the delicate skin at his wrists.

Kunimi is quiet, still, dark eyes fixated on a picture of Iwaizumi and Akaashi that hangs amongst other photos on the wall, one they had taken on their third date, as if he’s trying to memorize their expressions, the clothes they’re wearing, the way they’re standing not completely straight but more like they’re leaning towards each other, a gravitational pull.

Makki and Mattsun occupy the couch adjacent to the love seat. Makki has his head in his hands, and Mattsun keeps fidgeting, fingers twitching, throwing Makki brief, frequent looks, his face unusually open and vulnerable, eyelashes still wet.

Oikawa sits with Iwaizumi at the kitchen table just off of the living room that is the dividing line between the two areas, turns to face the room of waiting, expectant people, keeping a strong grip on Iwaizumi’s hand.

He feels exhausted, drained, worn out, and still, the anxiety, the fear, swirls dark and stormy in the pit of his stomach, latches onto any positive thought and makes it insignificant.

Akaashi’s absence is physical, sharp, hurts every time Oikawa inhales, a gash in the room, like someone’s taken a knife and sliced through the air, leaving a void.

"The police have all of the information," Oikawa says to the room, Iwaizumi staring blindly at the floor. "They’re asking people at Akaashi’s job at the bookstore about when they last saw him, but they told us the best thing we can do is wait here in case he comes home or they find anything."

He keeps his voice steady, tries not to think about what Suga had said earlier.

He can’t think of any reason why Akaashi would’ve been linked to anything, why the people searching for Suga and Kunimi and the others would’ve pinpointed him out of all people, but he can’t keep the thoughts from settling heavy and distracting in his mind, can’t help but feel guilt eat away at his stomach because Iwaizumi doesn’t know anything, doesn’t know that this could have been something planned, premeditated, something that Oikawa had been a direct cause of.

It makes him sick, leaves him shaking no matter how strong he’s trying to appear on the outside.

"Some of us could go out and keep looking," Mattsun says, breaking the quiet, hands curled into fists on his thighs. "Iwaizumi and you can stay here and wait to hear from the police, but we could go back to his workplace or the school."

Oikawa opens his mouth to protest, trying to think of a good reason to refuse besides the one he can’t voice, the one that says what if Akaashi has been taken by the people Suga escaped from, what if they’re still out there waiting, lurking in the shadows, connecting dots and waiting for someone else to walk into their line of sight.

Sudden, rapid knocking on the front door cuts his voice off, has all of their heads whipping towards the noise, Iwaizumi jerking out of the daze he’d fallen into after he’d stopped crying, and for a few, breathless seconds, no one moves.

Oikawa is the first to move, getting up a split second faster than Iwaizumi does and taking two long steps to the door, hand outstretched to yank it open.

Iwaizumi jerks himself from his chair so hard it tips over and hits the ground with a crash that seems louder than it should be, echoing in Oikawa’s ears.

There’s a clatter of footsteps as everyone else stands up behind them, Iwaizumi pressed almost all of the way against his back, but the person on the threshold when Oikawa rips the door open is the last person he had been expecting to see.

"Ushi-," he blurts, completely caught off guard, but a second figure is stepping out from behind the police officer’s larger frame, shoulders quivering as he cries, tears glittering on his cheeks and dripping down his chin, and Iwaizumi makes a broken noise and shoves past Oikawa and Ushijima, colliding with Akaashi hard enough to send them both careening back into the hallway wall with a loud thud.

Oikawa watches in ecstatic disbelief, feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes as Iwaizumi holds Akaashi hard enough to himself to lift the other off of the ground, watches Akaashi wrap arms around Iwaizumi’s neck and legs around his waist and bawl, the sounds echoing between the walls, coupled with Iwaizumi frantically murmuring words that are low and soothing and so, so relieved into his ear.

Excited murmuring erupts behind him, and Oikawa looks up at Ushijima, who has remained expressionless throughout the whole ordeal.

"Ushiwaka," he greets, unsure what to feel at the moment because too many emotions are fighting for space in his chest, but quickly settling on tenacious gratitude.

"Oikawa," Ushijima says, voice just as deep as Oikawa remembers, shifting in place, his badge glinting in the light, and it’s only then that Oikawa sees what he’s gripping in his right hand.

"He was at the adoption center," Ushijima says, following Oikawa’s bewildered gaze.

It’s a pet carrier although Oikawa is unable to see what’s inside, and another look up at Ushijima’s face leaves Oikawa with the impression that the police officer is a little uncomfortable holding it, his eyebrows furrowed, holding the handle as if he’s afraid that if he makes the slightest wrong move it’ll explode.

"Here, I’ll take it."

Suga’s voice floats in next to Oikawa’s shoulder, and he glances over to see the shorter boy standing by his side, a tired but unforced smile on his lips, the words aimed at Ushijima, who blinks once, twice, at Suga and then hands the pet carrier over.

Oikawa is a little surprised, probably because in the back of his mind he had been expecting Suga to be wary around a police officer considering the reaction he had had the first night they had met, but he guesses the overwhelming consolation that Akaashi is back, safe and sound, is the only thing anyone can really focus on at the moment.

He can only imagine what Suga feels.

Besides, it’s not like Ushijima knows who Suga is, and Oikawa suspects that the organization that is looking for him and the others wouldn’t contact law enforcement anyway, not if they’re a private institution with such a large secret.

Oikawa watches the exchange between the two, eyes narrowing as he notices Ushijima’s gaze linger on Suga’s back longer than necessary when the other carries the cage into the kitchen, and Oikawa clears his throat loudly, struck by the sudden urge to step on Ushijima’s black, polished shoes.

Ushijima’s eyes snap back to his quickly, deadpan expression firmly back in place.

"I should be getting back to the office," he explains in a monotone voice, brushing imaginary dust from his uniform. "I’m sure Mr. Akaashi can explain everything from here."

Oikawa is deciding whether to stop him or let him go, but as soon as Ushijima turns around, Akaashi is disentangling himself from Iwaizumi, significantly more calm than he had been a few minutes ago, and laying a hand on one of Ushijima’s arms.

"At least stay for coffee," he says, voice a little rough from crying, wiping at an eye with a coat sleeve quickly. "It’s the least I can do to thank you."

Ushijima hesitates for a moment, wavering, but Iwaizumi is nodding, wrapping an arm around Akaashi’s waist and using his free hand to clap Ushijima on the back and steer him back into the apartment.

"Long time, no see, Ushijima," he says, the red circles under his eyes barely noticeable past the smile on his face, his fingers fitting around Akaashi’s hip as if they’re never going to leave.

Oikawa steps back from the door to make room for the three to enter, stepping forward and hugging Akaashi quickly when he gets close enough, burying his face in his neck.

Akaashi’s still cold from being outside, but Oikawa could care less, a rush of affection for the boy who’s become a fast friend over the years sweeping over him, intermingling with the smell of black tea and ink that always seemed to linger on Akaashi’s skin.

Akaashi returns the hug tightly, the two of them not exchanging any words, and Oikawa feels a warm tear drop to splash across his collarbone before Akaashi pulls back, wiping at his eyes again and flashing him a watery smile.

The four of them shuffle into the kitchen, bombarded by Makki and Mattsun along the way who throw themselves at Akaashi with twin expressions of joy, the three of them laughing loudly at something Makki says.

Oikawa grins, feeling the last of the tension in his shoulders melt away, as they all settle around the kitchen table, Kunimi greeting Akaashi and Iwaizumi and introducing himself before he sits down in the seat next to Makki, another sucker in his hand as if it materialized from thin air because it definitely wasn’t there earlier, but Oikawa decides not to ask, content with the fact that Kunimi doesn’t look as uncomfortable surrounded by all of these new people as he might’ve a few days ago.

There aren’t enough chairs for all of them, and when Oikawa glances around the kitchen for a place to sit down, his eyes catch on Suga, crouched in a corner of the kitchen, trying to coax whatever’s in the pet carrier out.

Amongst Iwaizumi bustling around asking everyone how they want their coffee, and Akaashi assuring Mattsun that he’ll explain everything once everyone’s settled, Oikawa slips over to Suga’s side, getting down on his knees carefully and bumping their elbows together.

Suga glances over quickly, surprised, until he sees who it is and smiles, mirroring everything Oikawa is feeling in the curve of his mouth, the flash of teeth.

"He’s shy," Suga says, turning his attention back to the cage, holding a hand out, palm up, at the front of the cage.

Oikawa tries to get closer, bending down to peer inside, but Suga pushes his face away lightly.

"You’re going to scare him," he says, laughing a little, and Oikawa pouts.

"With this face?" Oikawa asks teasingly, batting his eyelashes, and Suga laughs again, louder this time, the mood from earlier already a distant memory, leaving them both giddy with relief.

Oikawa feels light, like he’s chugged a bottle of champagne, overjoyed and bubbling over with a breathless happiness that leaves him dizzy and drunk, Suga’s thigh warm against the side of his, mouth curving prettily as he looks at Oikawa.

For one, earth-shattering moment, Oikawa wonders what it would be like to kiss that laugh out of Suga, to get him to make the same noise not with words, but with fleeting butterfly kisses all across his face, by crowding him against the kitchen counter and dropping open-mouthed kisses down the soft length of his neck.

The thought hits Oikawa like a freight train, disappearing as soon as it came, leaves him momentarily speechless, heat crawling up the back of his neck and leaving him tongue-tied, but, luckily, at that moment, the tip of a black nose peeks out from the pet carrier, distracting Suga.

White whiskers follow quickly, and then a pair of dark eyes that blink up at them owlishly.

Suga coos, curling a hand in front of the tiny nose and letting the kitten bump its forehead once, twice against his fingers, letting him or her get accustomed to the light and the two giant strangers sitting in front of it.

The kitten blinks a few more times, and then crawls the rest of the way out of the cage slowly, carefully, one, blue-grey-colored paw after the other, until it’s fully in view.

"I didn’t realize he would cause so much trouble," a voice at Oikawa’s shoulder says softly, and he turns, face still too hot to be comfortable, to find Akaashi peering over the two of them at the kitten who’s quickly warmed up to Suga and has pounced into his lap, batting at the front of his sweater with a paw.

"Ushijima said you were at the adoption center?" Oikawa says, phrasing the sentence like a question, and Akaashi nods, sighs, gets down on the floor with them.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," he explains, eyes still a little red from all of the crying. "I left work early, but I hadn’t told anyone but my supervisor where I was going. And my phone had died earlier in the day."

Oikawa smiles, nudges Akaashi’s leg with a foot.

"And here I thought you were the most organized out of all of us," he teases.

Akaashi is the most put together, Oikawa knows. He’s seen the English major’s painstakingly neat notes, written out in black ink as if they’ve been typed instead, has thanked him countless times for having painkillers or an extra notebook or a pen for him to use at school.

"It was a hectic morning," Akaashi says sheepishly. "I forgot my charger here, and I thought I could get in and out of the adoption center before Hajime got home. I didn’t realize the panic I had caused until Ushijima showed up just as I was leaving with him."

He points to the kitten, who looks like a Russian Blue the more Oikawa stares at him, and who is now tottering away from Suga on tiny legs, making a beeline for the kitchen table.

Makki nearly shrieks with excitement when he sees it, slipping down out of his chair none too gracefully and crawling across the kitchen floor on all fours to scoop the kitten up.

Ushijima watches on with another unusual uncomfortable expression as the kitten squirms free and darts around his shiny shoes, and Oikawa concludes that either he must not be fond of cats or he’s just feeling awkward sitting in a kitchen with a bunch of strangers and three former teammates.

Oikawa turns his attention back to Akaashi, who is watching Iwaizumi spot the kitten and break into a surprised but bright smile, stealing him from Makki’s death grip.

"We’re just glad you’re home," he says because he knows Akaashi is still struggling with the guilt of everything, can tell that he blames himself for causing such a mass panic.

Akaashi shoots him a grateful smile and Oikawa mimes being shot in the chest, his hand flying up to cover the left side of his chest.

"Kaash-chan, you can’t hit me with that without warning," he exclaims dramatically, standing up and helping Akaashi off of the floor. "My heart might stop."

"Oi, Shittykawa, stop flirting with my boyfriend," Iwaizumi calls from near the stove, trying to balance two mugs of coffee and the kitten with both arms, his tone not matching the words at all, a stupid grin still on his face, and Oikawa sticks his tongue out, unable to keep the grin off of his own face, so wide that it hurts.

It’s dark outside by the time everyone begins to talk about heading home, empty coffee cups on the table, lamps flipped on and flooding the space with warm light.

Oikawa almost doesn’t want to go. He’s curled up on the couch in the living room, warm and drowsy and content, eyes fluttering closed every few seconds.

Akaashi had explained everything again to the rest of the people crowded in the kitchen, sitting in Iwaizumi’s lap, the latter thanking Ushijima so sincerely afterwards that Oikawa swears he saw the tips of the police officer’s ears turn pink even as he explained that it had been Akaashi’s supervisor who had told him where to look and that he was just doing his job, obviously confused by Iwaizumi’s intensity.

Afterwards, everyone had been distracted by the kitten, who Akaashi had admitted he hadn’t named yet, the conversation turning towards other things, like how Ushijima liked his job and if he regretted leaving NYU during his sophomore year to go to the police academy instead.

Ushijima, who had played volleyball with Oikawa, Iwaizumi, and Akaashi their freshman and part of their sophomore year of college, had answered everything in that same annoyingly logical, precise way Oikawa remembered, but Oikawa couldn’t summon the envy or the irritation he had felt towards the ace back when they had played on the same team.

Now it just seemed stupid and petty, emotions that had been unwarranted and mostly stemmed from jealousy and the way Ushijima reminded Oikawa of someone from his past, emotions that Ushijima had always looked over, never seeming to hold any spite against Oikawa in return, which, at the time, had only served to infuriate Oikawa more.

Except now, as everyone gets up and carries their coffee cups to the sink, grabbing coats and scarves, Oikawa can feel some of those feelings rise up again.

It might have to do with the fact that Ushijima has seemed unusually interested in Suga all night, his eyes gravitating towards the other whenever there was a lull in the conversation.

Or it could be because, right now, Ushijima and Suga are talking in the kitchen, Suga laughing at something Ushijima says and smiling up at him, the police officer obviously flustered by the reaction, a hand moving to rub at the back of his neck.

Oikawa strains to listen, sits up a little straighter, and is considering waltzing into the kitchen in the pretense of getting a glass of water, when Suga bends down suddenly, scooping up the kitten who’s wandered by, and then hands it out to Ushijima, who hasn’t touched it once the entire night.

Ushijima’s eyebrows furrow, and he hesitates, the kitten staring up at him innocently, unperturbed by his looming stature; and then, at something Suga says, he reaches out and strokes one slate-gray ear slowly, tentatively, seeming to grow more comfortable with each passing second until Suga decides to plop the kitten into his hands.

Oikawa smirks, waiting for Ushijima to drop it, or scream, or something.

What he isn’t expecting is for Ushijima to _smile_.

Oikawa nearly falls off of the couch in shock, watches in disbelief as Ushijima’s mouth curves up, his eyes crinkling in a way that shouldn’t be as cute as Oikawa refuses to admit it is, and pets the kitten with one hand, keeping it close to his chest with the other, looking absolutely delighted when the kitten presses closer, probably purring.

"If you don’t stop sulking like a baby, Ushiwaka’s going to steal your boyfriend, Shittykawa."

Oikawa jerks in surprise, tearing his gaze away from Ushijima and Suga, who is now patting the police officer on the arm in a congratulatory manner, and twists in his seat to find Iwaizumi sitting down next to him on the couch, a smirk on his face.

"He’s not- we’re not-," he sputters, burying his face in his hands when Iwaizumi’s grin gets even bigger. "Shut up, Iwa-chan."

Iwaizumi snorts.

"Please," he scoffs. "As if anyone could ignore the looks you give him when you think no one’s watching. It’s like watching a lovesick puppy."

Oikawa cringes farther into the couch, thinks about the thought he had had earlier while kneeling on the kitchen floor, and feels his heart thump pitifully in his chest.

Sure, Suga is attractive, pretty no matter which angle you look at him from, and he’s kind and smart and loyal and brave, and Oikawa likes holding his hand and watching him smile, even if it’s at someone like Ushijima, and Oikawa maybe wouldn’t mind kissing him breathless at least three times a day, and-

"Fuck," Oikawa mutters under his breath, his voice muffled by his hands.

Iwaizumi hears it though and laughs, loud enough for Oikawa to glance up and catch Makki peering into the living room from the front door, smirking at Iwaizumi like he knows exactly what they’re talking about.

Oikawa had thought those two were being suspicious earlier, the two of them whispering to each other while they placed beignets from a package Iwaizumi had had in his pantry on a plate, casting him smug looks every five seconds.

"Shut _up_ , Iwa-chan!" Oikawa says again, nearly shouting in his embarrassment, face burning because he’s sure Suga is looking their way by now as well but he refuses to check, whacking his best friend in the face with a pillow.

It’s the wrong move, and he ends up sprawled across the living room floor, breathless and dazed, Iwaizumi still victoriously on the couch, his face upside down as he snickers down at Oikawa.

The kitten, back on the ground now, meanders in, gives Oikawa a brief, curious look, and then sits on his face.

The next morning, Oikawa is woken up at an ungodly hour by singing.

Horrible, off-key, loud, obnoxious singing.

Makki stirs beside him, mumbling something unintelligible and hiding his face in his pillow.

Oikawa sits up groggily, wincing when the person singing hits a particularly loud and high note.

He’s going to kill whoever that is, and if it’s one of his neighbors, he’s going to blast the volume on every single fight scene in Alien the next time he watches it as revenge.

As Oikawa wakes up more, rubbing his eyes and glaring, trying to figure out which way the singing is coming from, he realizes it’s just outside his bedroom window.

And that the voice is very, very familiar.

_Baby you don’t have to rush, you can leave a toothbrush, at my place, at my place._

"Makki," Oikawa hisses, realization dawning quickly despite his bed-head, whacking his friend with a pillow. "Get up!"

Makki groans and rolls over again, presenting Oikawa with his back and then a middle finger thrown over his shoulder.

_Stuck in a limbo, half hypnotized, each time I let you stay the night, stay the night._

"Makki!" Oikawa kicks his friend out of the bed, Makki hitting the floor with a thump and a startled squeak, excitement slowly welling up in his chest until he feels like screaming.

"What the hell, Oikawa?" Makki asks angrily, his head popping up over the edge of the bed, pink hair in a complete disarray, brows furrowed angrily, eyes still bleary.

"Makki, Makki, Makki," Oikawa sing-songs, jumping out of bed and grabbing Makki’s hands to pull him up. "Follow me."

"What the fuck is that?" Makki grumbles when he notices the singing, stumbling after Oikawa as the other drags him into the living room.

It’s barely morning, the clock reading 5:30 a.m., the sun still hidden behind skyscrapers and the horizon.

"Wait, doesn’t that sound like-"

Oikawa doesn’t give Makki time to finish his question, letting go of his hands to yank his galaxy-print curtains back, revealing the scene on the street below.

"Oh my God," Makki breathes, eyes widening, fully-awake immediately, and Oikawa muffles a smile behind a hand.

_We don’t need to keep it hush, you can leave a toothbrush, at my place, at my place._

Mattsun bounces from foot to foot on the sidewalk two stories down, bundled in a coat, scarf, and gloves, his nose visibly red even from here, breath puffing into the air as he sings, his phone in one hand, blaring the song at the loudest volume it can manage.

Makki covers his mouth with his hands, eyes glistening suspiciously, laughs when an older woman walks by outside, giving Mattsun a wary look and giving him a wide berth as she passes.

Mattsun’s face brightens when he notices Makki and Oikawa standing in the window, Oikawa unlocking and sliding the window up, and sings louder, holding both arms up as if he expects Makki to jump down from the window, open to catch him.

Oikawa had been too preoccupied with Akaashi last night to really push Makki into talking to Mattsun, but he hadn’t failed to notice the lingering, side-long glances or the way both of them would open their mouth like they were going to say something before they were distracted by someone else or before they decided not to say anything after all.

"Makki," Mattsun calls up, taking a deep breath and pausing the song, hesitating before he speaks the next words. "I’m sorry about everything, I mean, I’m not, because-"

He stops, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to re-word his thoughts, Makki watching him in tense anticipation, hands still over his mouth.

"What I’m trying to say is that I don’t regret anything we did except for the part where I didn’t tell you how much it actually meant to me. I know I might’ve put a strain on our friendship, but I don’t care because you- you’re so much more to me than that."

The last sentence comes out a little breathlessly, Mattsun’s face open and a little apprehensive, like he’s unsure how Makki is going to react.

"Makki-," Oikawa starts, glancing over at his friend’s flushed face, but Makki is already turning his back to the window, rushing to shove on shoes before he opens Oikawa’s front door and takes off down the hallway to the stairwell.

Oikawa watches from the window, giving Mattsun a reassuring thumbs up until Makki eventually emerges in front of the building and rushes towards Mattsun in his pajamas, jumping into his arms like some kind of cliche movie ending but so much better, the two of them lit up by streetlights, Makki’s hair glowing hot pink, startling against his gray t-shirt and black sweatpants.

There’s a lot of laughing, and then crying, and then Mattsun is setting Makki back down onto the frozen ground, grabbing his face with both hands, and pulling him into a kiss that has Oikawa blushing and pulling his curtains closed quickly.

He leaves the front door unlocked and curls back into bed, smiling into his pillow.

Suga is shaking so hard Oikawa is afraid that he’s going to collapse onto the floor of the café.

He wants to reach out, pull Suga to his chest, run comforting fingers through his hair, but he keeps himself from doing any of that, focuses on Daichi instead.

"So he’s never been back, ever since that time he painted this?" Oikawa asks, gesturing to the ceiling, and Daichi nods, leans a hip against the counter.

"I haven’t seen him. You said he’s a friend of yours?"

Daichi looks confused, but he’s answered all of Suga and Oikawa’s questions patiently, leaving Kuroo to manage any customers coming in, although there aren’t any at the moment, the café empty besides the four of them, probably because it just opened.

Suga nods, shifts impatiently, keeps throwing glances up to the ceiling.

Daichi rubs the back of his neck, gives Suga a sympathetic look.

"If you leave your number, I’ll call you if he ever shows back up," he offers, rummaging below the counter for a napkin and a pen.

Oikawa gives him a thankful smile even as his heart sinks in his chest, the feeling mirrored on Suga’s face, in the downturned quirk of his mouth.

He writes his cellphone number down quickly, gives Suga a sidelong glance when he’s finished.

The other boy is staring up at the ceiling, eyes moving slowly, carefully over each piece of the painting as if he’s trying to memorize every detail, every feather, every star, imprinting all of it somewhere in his chest.

"Futakuchi," Oikawa says softly, hating suddenly that he can’t use Suga’s real name, "we should head back."

Kunimi is at his apartment alone, Makki having left earlier with Mattsun after he had changed and packed his stuff, thanking Oikawa for letting him stay the past two nights with a quick peck to his cheek and a long hug.

Suga’s eyes flicker back down to Oikawa, shimmers of blue decorating the hazel, glitters of gold, sad and hopeful and impatient all at the same time.

He nods in resignation, pulls his gloves back on, taking his time, as if Yamaguchi is going to walk through the front door at any second.

Kuroo appears by Daichi’s side then, two cardboard cups in his hands.

"Here," he says, sliding them across the counter. "To replace the ones you guys dropped yesterday, on the house."

Oikawa tries to protest, to say he’ll pay anyway because they did break two of their mugs after all, but Kuroo is covering his ears and humming loudly, drowning out any words that leave Oikawa’s mouth, Daichi sighing in fond exasperation at the childish action.

"He’s right, it’s fine," he agrees, pushing the cups a little bit closer to Oikawa and Suga. "You two apparently went through a lot yesterday night, so it was understandable."

Oikawa sighs in defeat, but thanks them both and lets his hands wrap around the warm cup, taking a sip.

It’s the same thing they had ordered last night, the cinnamon sweet and comforting on his tongue, the smooth traces of honey sticking to the back of his throat, achingly saccharine.

Suga thanks them too, looking close to tears, hiding his quivering smile behind the rim of the cup when he takes a drink.

Oikawa’s heart clenches painfully tight at the expression, his own eyebrows furrowing down into an expression of worry, and he allows himself to reach to the side and hold Suga’s free hand, rubbing a thumb across the back of his hand even though they both have gloves on.

Iwaizumi’s words from last night surface in his head, but he pushes them away. Now isn’t the time to be thinking about something as trivial as confessing his feelings.

"Thanks again, Dai-chan, Tetsu-chan," Oikawa says, putting on an air of lightheartedness, if only to help Suga. "We’ll drop by again soon."

Kuroo sputters at the nickname, Daichi cracking a smile and slapping him on the back.

Oikawa grins at him as him and Suga move towards the front door, watches Daichi say, "Okay, back to work, Tetsu-chan." in a simpering, coy tone, the tops of Kuroo’s cheeks turning bright pink at the nickname coming from Daichi’s mouth, and Oikawa raises an eyebrow in amusement and curiosity, stores the information away for later use.

Suga is quiet beside Oikawa, but he turns his head to the side to look up at him as they get closer to the front door.

"Thanks for coming with me," he says.

Oikawa pauses then, the words snapping something inside of him, emotions warring in his chest, and then turns so that he’s facing Suga fully, making a decision.

He uses his free hand to tuck a curl of Suga’s hair behind his right ear, lets his fingers slide across the warm expanse of skin at Suga’s neck until his thumb rests at the jut of Suga’s jaw, tilting his face up, his fingers cradling the back of his neck, moving slowly so that Suga can pull away if he wants to, whenever he wants to.

He doesn’t, just keeps his eyes locked on Oikawa’s face, a barely there blush appearing on his face like brushstrokes of rose, and that only sends Oikawa’s already racing heart into overdrive, so loud he’s afraid that not only will Suga be able to hear it, but so will Daichi and Kuroo, the two of them arguing about something behind the counter.

"Suga, you don't have to thank me every time I do something," he gets out, voice gentle despite the nerves sparking like electricity in his veins, ready to tell Suga the same thing he had told Kunimi in the kitchen that morning that seems ages ago after everything’s that’s happened. "I’m doing all of this because-"

There’s a fluttering of wind by Oikawa’s head then, a flap of what almost feels like wings, the rest of his words going unspoken, lost in the whip of air and feather-tips against his cheek.

_"Because I want to."_

Suga and Oikawa turn their heads in unison, Oikawa’s hand dropping from Suga’s face.

And there, perched on the top of the bell that hangs above the front door, is a crow.

A breathing, living crow, its feathers shimmering jet-black and burning sapphire under the lights, catching the fluorescents of the streetlights that spill in through the windows, its black eyes regarding them with disinterest.

"What-," Oikawa says, looking at it in disbelief because he’s not sure where it came from, especially since no one else has opened the front door since they came in, and then it caws, loud and brash, startling both of them, Suga nearly dropping his cup.

"Ummm, Daichi, Kuroo, I think you have a bird probl-," Oikawa starts, turning towards the counter, but he stops mid-speech, his heart stuttering in his chest, Suga inhaling quickly, setting his cup down on a nearby table and rushing forward before Oikawa can stop him, skidding to a stop in the middle of the coffee shop.

Kuroo and Daichi stand shell-shocked behind the coffee machines, speechless, watch with Oikawa in sheer disbelief as the ceiling wavers once, twice, like ripples across a pond, the stars flickering between flat, white paint to glittering, burning shards of light, the crows suddenly moving, still two-dimensional but blinking, beaks opening in voiceless cries, the blooms of amethyst and sapphire that are swirled like watercolors through the inky sky shifting, rippling, swirling like a storm is brewing inside the café.

As Suga stands directly beneath the entire thing, eyes focused on the scene above him with unwavering intensity, his scarf fluttering to the ground at his side, the crows begin to flap their wings, peeling themselves one by one from the plaster ceiling, jerking into fully-formed birds like the one still perched above the front door, the ceiling giving one last giant shudder, one last ripple traveling the entire expanse, before the stars wink into permanent existence, shimmering white-gold, the glowing night sky very, very real above them as if the roof of the café has been removed, a strong wind suddenly rushing through the room and knocking over chairs, sending Oikawa stumbling backwards a few steps, Kuroo shouting something indistinguishable over the sudden noise, the flap of bird wings, the shriek of wind, the shrill, deafening caws of crows.

And as Oikawa watches, breathless, mesmerized, Suga smiles up at the ceiling, the crows forming a tornado around him, flying in never-ending circles, faster and faster, Suga’s silver hair flying around his face, as bright as the stars, the last thing Oikawa sees before the crows block his sight completely, a whirlwind of black feathers.

And just as fast as it had happened, it all stops.

The wind disappears, the crows blink out of existence, the stars stop glittering.

The coffee shop is windswept, plastic cups scattered everywhere, a syrup bottle tipped over on the counter leaking crystal-clear, sticky flavoring, and Kuroo and Daichi are still in the same place they had been before anything had happened, their eyes wide and focused on the same thing Oikawa is staring at, all three of them unable to move, hearts hammering in their chests.

Black feathers litter the floor, cover the ground in streaks of obsidian and cerulean.

And in the middle of it all, kneeling amidst the sea of wings, is Suga, his face downturned, expression hidden by his hair, another boy clutched close to his chest, his arms around Suga’s shoulders, a single feather clenched in his fist.


	14. a spray of gold and ink-covered matchsticks

The café is so quiet that the drop of a pin on the floor would sound like a gunshot going off.

Suga is still on his knees, completely motionless, a photograph of a memory, everything paused in time, trapped and preserved in the impression of light on a silver-coated surface.

Yamaguchi Tadashi, the boy still clutched to him, is the same, the only movement the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes.

Oikawa is stunned, the pounding of his heart shaking his ribs, somehow still holding onto his drink.

For five, breathless seconds, no one speaks, no one moves, as if time is giving each of them their own little moment to regain their wits.

There are so many feathers strewn across the floor that when Oikawa finally does manage to put one foot in front of the other, his attention solely and completely focused on Suga and Yamaguchi, he slips a little on the glossy black and blue plumes, and it’s the slight flailing of his arms to keep him balanced that seems to break Kuroo from his own astonishment.

"What the actual fu-," the barista starts, voice loud and jarring, Yamaguchi flinching in Suga’s hold, his face finally turning up towards the noise, a lock of brown hair falling into his eyes.

"Kuroo," Oikawa warns, the significance of what just happened, of what Daichi and Kuroo both saw, hitting him piece by piece until he’s more than aware of the situation the five of them are trapped in.

If one of them decides to make a run for it, or call the police, or do anything besides listen to Suga’s explanation, the entire cover could be blown, all eyes turned on the runaways, three now, that Oikawa is harboring.

News stations, radio channels, the government, law enforcement, everyone would be watching, searching, asking questions, imprisoning, until the one organization they’ve been trying to avoid caught up to them.

Suga and Kunimi and Yamaguchi would be obsessed over, trapped under a microscope, tested, alienated, stripped apart slowly, methodically.

And for some unknown reason, at that moment, stepping gingerly across crow feathers, Oikawa is struck by another sudden, disturbing thought that seems to come from nowhere, but that is so significant that Oikawa is bewildered as to why he never thought about it before.

Suga has never mentioned the name of the facility he had grown up in, has never referred to the people as anything but "teachers", and it’s a detail that Oikawa is positive Suga wouldn’t leave out on accident, something too important to be forgotten, something he would’ve included that time he explained how he had gotten to Oikawa’s apartment, the reason behind the mess he was in.

Oikawa’s eyes catch a circle of black and gold around Yamaguchi’s wrist, on the same hand that’s still clutching the crow feather, and he thinks of the words, wonders why he had never asked further about their meaning.

_Power to many, obedience for all._

The realization settles dark and heavy in Oikawa’s stomach, and he looks to Suga as if the other boy can hear his thoughts, alarm bells going off in his head, Kuroo and Daichi momentarily forgotten.

Suga’s gaze, however, isn’t on Oikawa.

He’s watching Kuroo and Daichi steadily, carefully, eyes flickering across their faces, taking in facial reactions, hand movements, the curves of their mouths, anything that might allude to what they’re thinking, what they’re considering doing next.

"What?" Kuroo asks, responding to Oikawa, jerking him back to the present and away from his own jarring thoughts. "'Kuroo' what? I swear to God, Oikawa, if you’re telling me to watch my language I’m going to lose it. Did you not see what just happene-"

Daichi lays a hand on Kuroo’s arm, silencing him immediately, the taller boy’s eyes snapping towards him, wide and maybe a little terrified.

"Tetsurou, we need to close the shop until we can clean all of this up," he says, amazingly calm for someone who just watched his ceiling transform into something alive, for someone who just witnessed a boy drop from it as if he had been there all along.

"This is a prank, right?" Kuroo is saying as Oikawa slips and slides the rest of the way over to Suga and Yamaguchi, finally getting his legs to move. "Is that why you woke me up so early this morning? I bet you guys thought it would be really funny to scare me, huh? Well guess what, ya got me, so you can drop the act now and the magician can come out."

Kuroo’s voice is bubbling into something half-way hysterical, but Daichi seems to be handling the situation, locking the front door and returning to his friend’s side, saying something in a low, composed tone, so Oikawa tunes him out, kneels down next to the two on the floor.

Yamaguchi regards him almost shyly, galaxies of freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks, a high flush staining his skin.

"Are you guys all right?" Oikawa asks, balancing himself with a palm to the floor, his fingers running over the sleek edges of the mess beneath them.

Suga exhales then, as if he’d been holding his breath all along, watches Daichi close the shutters on the windows so that the dawning light outside is shut out, and lets his hands slide from Yamaguchi’s shoulders to grip his hands instead, the other, smaller boy nodding slowly, answering Oikawa’s question.

"Oikawa, this is Yamaguchi," Suga says, his voice so composed, the words so formal, so ridiculous, in their current situation, sprawled across the floor after witnessing an event that shouldn’t have been possible according to the modern rules of science, Kuroo still sputtering in the background, that Oikawa can’t help but snort out a laugh, Suga’s face twisting in brief surprise before he’s doing the same, wild, uncontrollable laughter that reverberates around the café.

For some reason, perhaps because of the overwhelming disbelief that they’ve found another one, perhaps because of the immense elation that must be flooding Suga’s heart and that is sinking through Oikawa’s bloodstream, they can’t stop laughing, Suga letting go of Yamaguchi and falling backwards into the mess of feathers, clutching at his ribs, Oikawa blinking back tears, any attempts to muffle the noise resulting in him giggling ridiculously high-pitched, which only causes Suga to crack up even more, rolling side to side, his ashen hair a mess around him.

Yamaguchi watches the two of them with wide, wide eyes, his blush growing even more pronounced when Suga sits up and tackles Oikawa to the floor in his joy, wrapping arms around his neck and throwing them both backwards, muffling his laughter in Oikawa’s neck, Oikawa hesitating for only a brief moment before he returns the embrace two times tighter, burying his face in Suga’s hair and squeezing his eyes shut, reminded of a time not long after Suga had shown him the stars, memories of a whispered "Thank you" muffled in the front of his t-shirt.

This time, though, Oikawa is able to loop his arms around Suga’s waist, feel him soft and warm and wonderful on top of him, the floor hard and completely irrelevant against his back, his heart thundering, taking his time to nudge his nose against Suga’s cheek, inhale the scent of his skin, feel Suga’s laughs slowly die down until he’s quiet, not making any move to disentangle himself, his fingers sliding up into the hair at Oikawa’s nape almost tentatively, breathing unsteadily against him, expression hidden.

"Oi, I don’t mean to break up the love-fest, but you two have some explaining to do."

Oikawa pulls his face back to narrow his eyes at Kuroo, who’s looming over them, Yamaguchi blinking up at the barista as his mouth parts into a soft "oh".

Suga sits up quickly, untangling himself from around Oikawa’s neck, straightening up from the ground and dusting a few feathers from where they’ve stuck to the front of his clothes, subtly avoiding Oikawa’s eyes.

Yamaguchi scrambles to his feet as well, sliding on the feathers and nearly toppling back over before Kuroo and Suga reach for him at the same time, a hand on each arm.

Oikawa sits up, shifts to join them in standing, listens to Yamaguchi speak for the first time, mumbling a quiet thank you.

His voice is even softer than Suga’s, more open and lilting.

Kuroo’s hand drops from Yamaguchi’s arm while Suga’s stays.

Daichi comes to join the impromptu group, and now that they’re all standing around each other, Oikawa can see that Yamaguchi is small and slender, but still a little taller than both Suga and Daichi. His brown hair falls messily around his face, a lock of it defying gravity and sticking straight up, and his eyes remind Oikawa of emerald stones, framed by thick, black eyelashes that flutter like a hummingbird’s wings as he blinks around at the group, flustered and perplexed.

Oikawa gets the vague feeling that Yamaguchi’s smile can light up a room just as much as Suga’s can.

Right now, however, Yamaguchi’s mouth is quivering, shoulders tense, curled close to Suga like Kunimi had been at Makki and Mattsun’s party.

Suga looks to Daichi, his spine ram-rod straight, chin tilted up, all traces of laughter gone. He’s all business, ready to deal with this unexpected hitch and deal with it quickly.

Oikawa keeps his mouth shut even though he wants to speak up, say something, because it’s Suga and Yamaguchi’s choice how to handle the streaks of incredulity and disbelief that paint Daichi and Kuroo’s faces cerise.

"Is there somewhere more private we can talk?" Suga asks.

Daichi regards the two, Yamaguchi biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, a smudge of color in his pale face, and finally nods, motioning towards a door Oikawa has never noticed before behind the barista counter.

The five of them step gingerly across the floor, Kuroo leading the way and throwing frequent glances over his shoulder at the rest of them, looking up at the painted ceiling before he shakes his head and mutters something under his breath.

Daichi unlocks the door, lets them all file in until they’re crowded into a cold stairwell, the space lit up by a fluorescent light fastened to the wall, concrete steps leading up to another door, this one painted bright red with a doormat that reads "There’s, like, a bunch of cats in here" in blocky, black letters.

"Ignore the questionable decoration choices," Daichi mutters under his breath, noticing Oikawa’s gaze, a small smile playing over his face despite how tense everyone is, Yamaguchi murmuring something to Suga under his breath, his voice noticeably shaky despite the low volume.

"Hey, I heard that," Kuroo says from somewhere near Oikawa’s left elbow, and Daichi smirks, unlocks the second door, the five of them tumbling into an apartment, warmer, less glaring light filling the room when Daichi flips a switch.

"Welcome to our humble abode," Kuroo says, sweeping an arm out, some of his usual flair returning, surfacing over the shock.

Oikawa, Suga, and Yamaguchi stand awkwardly near the front door as Kuroo and Daichi slip off their shoes, move farther into the apartment.

It’s bigger than Oikawa imagined it would be given the tiny, claustrophobic stairwell, hardwood floors and a shiny kitchen just ahead of them, black, floating bookshelves covering the walls in the living room, two windows looking out onto the front of Crow’s Coffee, and a large, overly squishy, black couch taking up most of the space.

A twisting, green-leafed tree sits in a glass jar just off of the windows, its tangled roots visible and suspended in water, and there are a few large, sphere-shaped, slate-gray containers right next to it, a hole cut into the front of each one, the balls kept from rolling by black wire, box-shaped frames.

Oikawa stares at them curiously, even more confused when he realizes there are small pillows and a blanket inside each one even though the spheres aren’t nearly big enough for a human, or even a child, to fit inside.

"Oi, are you three going to stand there all day or come in?"

Kuroo’s voice floats in from the kitchen, distracting Oikawa from his further inspection of the odd furniture, and they hurry to take off their shoes and coats, the side of one of Yamaguchi’s sneakers completely peeled away.

Oikawa makes a mental note to go shopping for clothes.

The kitchen is brightly lit and probably the nicest room in the entire apartment. It’s open, taking up at least half of the entire place, cramming the living room, and what must be the bedroom behind a closed door just off of it, onto the side of the apartment with windows.

A long, stainless-steel island occupies the middle of the room, an electric stove and a black stone, farmhouse sink inset into the middle of it, the light coming from a series of staggered glass, sphere-shaped lightbulbs above it, like frozen bubbles. The rest of the kitchen is stainless steel as well, a fridge and a transparent oven that has two, separate levels taking up one side, more counter space and silver wood cabinets with glass fronts wrapping around the perimeter.

Despite the modern sleekness that decorates everything, the kitchen is made cozy with little splashes of color from the little pots of herbs and other edible plants that are strewn around the counters, some grouped together in corners, others growing solitary in boxes that span the length of the counter, covering the backsplash behind them with green. There’s even a shelf mounted to the wall by the fridge, silver-tipped rosemary pushing up out of the dark soil. Little grow lights are installed above each group of plants, warm, honey-colored luminescence spilling over the shades of emerald and jade and mint.

"Holy shit," Oikawa breathes without meaning to, Kuroo huffing out a laugh from near the stove.

Yamaguchi looks even more stunned, his eyes flickering over every inch of the kitchen, mouth slightly open, and Oikawa thinks silently that he looks like he could fit right in with all of it with his friendly face and clear green eyes, that maybe that’s the reason he was drawn to Crow’s Coffee in the first place, with its plants and earthy undertones.

"Sit down and make yourselves comfortable, we’ll just finish cleaning up over here and then we can talk," Daichi says, wiping off the stove and running his hands under the water from the sink faucet, Kuroo throwing something into the trash can.

There’s evidence of what looks like multiple baking sessions and coffee experiments all over the countertops, cupcake wrappers littering the island in bright colors like pieces of candy, several mixing bowls coated in flour and sticky batter in the sink, a few bottles of caramel and a handful of coffee beans interspersed among the herbs.

Oikawa guesses that the two of them must make everything, all of the pastries and cookies and cakes, that are sold downstairs.

Suga, who’s been silent the entire time, sits down first at the moderately small kitchen table, his face closed off, lips pressed into a thin line, and Oikawa can tell he’s panicking on the inside, weighing what to tell and what to keep secret.

Oikawa wants to tell him that it’s okay, that Daichi and Kuroo will understand the importance of keeping quiet, that they won’t breathe a word to anyone else if Suga asks them not to.

Oikawa can’t be absolutely positive that this is the case, but neither of the baristas have given him a reason to think otherwise in the short time that they’ve known each other.

And yet, Oikawa also knows that even if he’s right, even if Kuroo and Daichi are completely trustworthy, there’ll still be one thing darkening Suga’s thoughts, adding to the stress and fear Suga must carry around all of the time, that all of them must suffer through every waking hour.

Confiding in Kuroo and Daichi, like Suga has with Oikawa, will only add two new people to the tangle of lies and secrecy that Suga has tried to keep as loose as possible around Oikawa’s life, that he’s tried to hold up himself, barely letting the gossamer edges hang down over Oikawa’s eyes, keeping mum about any further discussions about his past life ever since he had given the necessary details even though Oikawa knows there must be vast amounts of things left to talk about.

So now Suga must decide whether to reveal as much as he’s told Oikawa, to give Kuroo and Daichi fragments and pieces, or to spin a whole new web of lies, deceive them with shining threads of silk that are insubstantial and thin enough to break with a breath, but that are still strong enough to convince Kuroo and Daichi to keep it a secret between the five of them.

Oikawa sits down opposite Suga, waits for Yamaguchi to settle at Suga’s side before he catches Suga’s eye, offering him a reassuring smile that Suga returns quickly.

Yamaguchi meets Oikawa’s gaze next, smiling shyly at him even as the tips of his ears turn pink.

Suga seems to snap out of his momentary daze for a moment at the flash of Yamaguchi’s grin, placing his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

"Yamaguchi, I didn’t get to tell you downstairs, but Oikawa knows a lot more than you think. He’s been helping me ever since we left that night," Suga says, keeping his voice low so that only the three of them can hear it. "You can trust him."

Yamaguchi’s eyes snap from Suga to Oikawa so quickly that Oikawa is afraid he’s going to get a headache, his face registering the same shock Kunimi’s had at first, but he holds no trace of anger at the newfound knowledge, only says, "Oh," quietly and then nods to himself, seeming to accept the fact quickly and wholeheartedly.

Yamaguchi sticks a hand out over the table, his fingers trembling only slightly, freckles dotting the backs of his knuckles, and Oikawa takes it gently, almost afraid to grip too hard because Yamaguchi has the fingers of a pianist, long and slender and elegant.

His hand is cold despite the temperate air of the apartment, but when he smiles at Oikawa again, it’s bigger, warmer, as if they’ve known each other for years instead of minutes.

"I trust Suga," Yamaguchi says, as if someone had asked him to defend his decision to accept Oikawa so quickly. And then, "Thank you for taking care of him."

Oikawa isn’t sure how to respond to the overwhelming sincerity in Yamaguchi’s voice, but he’s saved from stumbling over some awkward, half-formed sentence when a quick, sleek shape jumps up onto the table.

Yamaguchi flinches in surprise, his hand slipping from Oikawa’s, Suga yelping as he startles.

"KitKat, get off the table!"

Kuroo’s voice echoes around the kitchen, but the reddish-brown cat that is now sitting smugly on the surface only blinks at him with an expression of boredom, blatantly disregarding the words, its almond-shaped eyes glinting gold and copper in the lights.

"KitKat," Daichi echoes, his voice more half-hearted because he’s focused on sticking a particularly batter-coated mixer in the dishwasher, but still reprimanding, and the cat stretches and then hops down, flicking its tail towards Kuroo sassily, the taller man gaping at the cat in obvious betrayal.

"Why does she always listen to you but never to me?" Kuroo voices out loud, watching KitKat pad into the living room, jumping onto the couch and then onto one of the bookshelves, curling up between two large paperbacks.

Daichi says something in response, his tone teasing, but Oikawa is distracted by another cat suddenly emerging from one of the mysterious spheres in the living room, which have turned out to be unusual cat beds.

This one is the same size as KitKat, fine-boned and slender, its silvery white ears leading down into a silver coat and a long, tapered tail, oval paws stepping noiselessly over the floor until its in the kitchen, leaping immediately into Kuroo’s outstretched arms.

"At least Ashes is loyal," Kuroo coos, stroking said cat under the chin, its green eyes sliding half-closed in enjoyment, curling farther into Kuroo’s shirt with a satisfied purr.

"Only because you bribe him with fish when you think I’m not looking," Daichi mutters, finished cleaning and wiping his hands off on a dishtowel.

Oikawa starts to smirk, listening to the two banter like an old married couple, but the moment is lost as soon as Daichi nears the table, the tight thread of tension that had slackened a little in the minutes spent cleaning the kitchen returning full force, wrapping around Oikawa’s ribs in chains of silver and making it hard to breathe.

Suga straightens up as well, fingers curling into fists on the tabletop, Yamaguchi glancing at him, a small crease between his eyebrows.

Oikawa tries to catch Suga’s gaze again, to tell him wordlessly that he’s here to support him no matter what Suga decides to tell Daichi and Kuroo, but Suga doesn’t look his way, hazel eyes on Kuroo as he sets Ashes down on the island and joins Daichi at the table, the two of them shooting each other a look that Oikawa is well acquainted with, that he’s seen his parents do countless times when they don’t want to say what they’re thinking out loud.

"So," Daichi starts first, breaking the fragile silence, and Oikawa feels like he’s hovering miles above the ground on a transparent floor that could crack at any second, Suga and Yamaguchi by his side, the three of them looking down at brilliant, burning city lights and hoping the glass doesn’t shatter. "What happened earlier was, uh-"

Daichi stops talking, clearing his throat, unsure of how to continue and probably hoping that at least one of the three guests will speak up.

Oikawa bites the inside of his cheek, watches Suga swallow hard, Yamaguchi fiddle with the bracelet around his wrist.

"It was impossible," Kuroo inputs, his gaze resting quickly on Yamaguchi before it darts away, almost as if he’s afraid the other is going to summon another murder of crows if he stares at him too long.

Suga and Yamaguchi aren’t the only ones uncomfortable, Oikawa realizes belatedly. Daichi and Kuroo must be going through small mental crises inside their heads after witnessing something like that in their own café.

Maybe that’s why they took so long to clean up the kitchen. Maybe it had been a method to dealing with the madness, something normal, routine, solid that they could grasp onto in the middle of an entire new world being opened up, a wall that had been smashed apart revealing a plot line that didn’t belong in the life they had grown up in.

Suga does look at Oikawa then, eyes flashing like gold coins, lingering on Oikawa’s face for two breathless moments like he’s trying to find something until he glances away again, taking a noticeable deep breath, the shadows of his collarbones like wings above the collar of his shirt, fingers clenching and unclenching around each other.

"Before I tell either of you anything," Suga says, squaring his shoulders and meeting each of their gazes firmly as Kuroo and Daichi’s eyes shift to him, "I need to tell you that you have two choices."

Silence descends over the apartment, heavy, an air of seriousness darkening the room, but no one says anything.

"If I answer your questions, you’ll be involved in a situation that I cannot guarantee is safe. Yamaguchi and I are in hiding, to put it one way. Telling you anything will only make you a liability for the people looking for us, will put a target on your backs if anyone finds out we talked to you."

Oikawa remembers Suga sitting in his tub, saying something similar even though he had already revealed his ability, and that unrelenting question of why Suga had decided to show him in the first place digs deeper in Oikawa’s chest, beats through his pulse in blooms of purple, a constant that has hovered in his thoughts for the past two days.

Oikawa sees bruises of amethyst that have long since faded.

_"They’ll take you too, if they find me."_

"Your other option," Suga continues, taking a deep breath, "is to forget any of this ever happened, to tell us to leave."

Oikawa waits with bated breath, watches Kuroo and Daichi absorb Suga’s words.

Daichi sighs after a few minutes, rubs the back of his neck, meeting Kuroo’s eyes, the latter nodding, the two of them coming to a silent agreement.

"We’ll take the chance," Kuroo answers finally, folding his hands on top of the table. "Neither of us have known any of you for very long, but I’m assuming you’re the good guys, right?"

Suga flashes him a wry smile even though he initially looks taken aback by the answer.

"Something like that," he responds.

"This is obviously something much bigger than either of us can comprehend right now," Daichi adds. "But you never know when you could use the extra help."

Kuroo laughs lightly. "Besides, I have a feeling both of us will go crazy not knowing what this is all about after we saw a bunch of painted crows suddenly come to life and take over our café."

"Please tell me that that actually happened and I didn’t just hallucinate the entire thing," Kuroo continues, his grin giving way to seriousness, a need for reassurance, glancing from Suga to Yamaguchi.

"What you saw was real," Suga says after a heavy pause, once he realizes that neither Daichi nor Kuroo are going to ask them to leave, the two’s attention completely and solely on him. "Yamaguchi and I, we’re not like any of you."

Daichi’s gaze flits to Oikawa, but Suga catches it, shakes his head.

"Oikawa has only been helping me. He’s the only one besides you two now who knows about any of this."

"So you guys aren’t human?" Kuroo asks, jumping a little when Ashes decides to jump into his lap, curling up and resting his head on Kuroo’s thigh.

"Aliens," Suga murmurs, almost to himself, meeting Oikawa’s surprised glance and letting his lips curve up, almost too fast to catch it.

Oikawa wants to simultaneously laugh and kiss him.

"We’re human," Suga says louder, answering Kuroo’s question. "We just have certain-"

He pauses, silver brows furrowing as he tries to think of a word.

"Talents."

Yamaguchi’s voice enters the conversation, lilting and sweet-tempered even through uttering only two syllables.

Suga nods, lets Yamaguchi continue although the latter blushes when he realizes everyone’s gaze is on him now, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

"We can do things like what you saw downstairs," he explains, the fingers of his right hand swirling intricate patterns across the top of the table so mindlessly that Oikawa wonders if he’s doing it without realizing.

Suga is quiet, and Oikawa realizes that he’s waiting to see if Yamaguchi will go into further detail.

"You all already saw what I can do, so I guess there’s no hiding it now," Yamaguchi continues after a pause, blooms of lavender pink visible right under his eyes, deepening as his embarrassment grows until his freckles are barely visible.

Oikawa chances a glance at Suga, wonders what his reaction will be if Yamaguchi voices what Oikawa already knows thanks to Kunimi.

But Yamaguchi doesn’t mention souls or trust, just takes a steadying breath and looks down at the top of the table.

Oikawa follows his gaze automatically, just as a knee-jerk reaction, and feels his heart wrench violently in his chest when he realizes that Yamaguchi’s seemingly senseless tracing hadn’t been pointless after all, hadn’t just been a subconscious habit stemming from nerves.

Kuroo and Daichi see it at the same time, inhaling sharply and jerking up straight in their chairs, the legs squeaking across the floor, Ashes leaping from Kuroo’s lap with a disgruntled meow.

There, covering a small square of Kuroo and Daichi’s table that had been blank moments before, is a detailed design of a cherry blossom branch, the petals of the blooming flowers painted a beautiful shade of blushing pink, soft and covering the thin, dark offshoot, all of it two-dimensional and mind-blowingly intricate, flat against the black surface.

As everyone watches in wonder, Yamaguchi snaps his fingers and then reaches down, almost like he’s dipping his fingers into the table, the surface shivering once, twice, rippling in exactly the same way the ceiling downstairs had, and then he’s pulling his hand back, the miniature cherry blossom bough held delicately between two pale fingers, the tabletop bare again.

Daichi gapes, Kuroo looks like he’s going to fall out of his chair, and Oikawa can do nothing but stare at the now-real tree branch in Yamaguchi’s hand.

Yamaguchi glances around at all of them, eyelashes fluttering, a bashful, nervous smile wavering on his face.

Suga reaches over, slips his fingers through Yamaguchi’s free hand, squeezes reassuringly.

"That’s- that’s-," Daichi sputters finally, seeming to find his voice, running a hand over his face.

"That’s fucking amazing," Kuroo interrupts, eyes shining. "It’s unbelievable and- Oh my God, I can’t even think right now."

"So you can paint things, and- and then make them real? Or live in them?" Daichi asks, stuttering. "That’s how you painted the ceiling so fast," he says right after, not giving Yamaguchi time to answer, realization dawning in his eyes. "And why you didn't want me to be around."

Yamaguchi flushes further, nods.

"I actually had it painted in an hour," he admits, a hint of pride in his voice, a spray of gold flecks. "I just stalled for time by napping in one of the armchairs to make it seem less suspicious."

There’s a beat of silence.

And then Kuroo is laughing so loud KitKat shoots up from where she’d been napping on the bookshelf, dropping to the floor and scurrying to hide in one of the cat beds.

Oikawa watches Kuroo double over, losing it completely, his shoulders shaking before Daichi follows suit, snorting and pressing his forehead to the table.

Yamaguchi watches with bewildered eyes, glancing to Suga for reassurance, the latter trying not to grin, but failing, his lips quirking up quickly as Kuroo howls and slips out of his chair onto the floor.

"And you were worried he was going to steal money," Daichi gasps out, trying to control his laughter and failing, looking down at his friend who’s halfway under the kitchen table.

Oikawa stifles a huff of laughter in the palm of his hand, feeling his shoulders relax minutely, meeting Suga’s amused gaze across the table.

The two sober up quickly, Kuroo managing to crawl back up into his chair, Daichi wiping tears from his eyes.

"Sorry, um-," Daichi pauses, looking at Yamaguchi questioningly, and the other boy blurts out his name, the cherry blossom branch now back in the table after another quick snap of his fingers, and then wiped away completely with a quick pass of his hand over the space.

"And you’re not actually Futakuchi, right?" Kuroo asks, picking up quickly, quirking an eyebrow at Suga, who shakes his head and hesitates only for a moment before he tells them his actual name.

"So that whole story about your missing friend-," Daichi starts.

"Was fake in some regards," Oikawa finishes, unable to resist the urge to say something. He feels like a spectator, watching Suga and Yamaguchi answer questions, wants to offer his support in some way.

"Kuroo, Daichi," Suga addresses both of them suddenly, leaning forward in his chair and letting go of Yamaguchi’s hand. "It’s very, very important that none of this leaves this apartment. If even a piece of information spreads, it would guide the people we’re running from straight to us, would lead them to you two or to Oikawa."

Kuroo and Daichi nod, suddenly very serious, and Oikawa breathes inwardly in relief, is somehow much more reassured about this whole ordeal when he sees how sincere both of their faces are.

"We understand, Suga," Daichi says, voice soft and solemn, and it’s only then, when those words break through the air, that Suga seems to slump back into his chair, a genuine smile finding its way to his face, his eyes fluttering closed briefly.

After that, the atmosphere in the kitchen seems to brighten, Daichi offering to make tea before Suga explains any more, Kuroo introducing Yamaguchi to KitKat and Ashes, who both seem to grow equally fond of the boy in a short period of time, taking up permanent residence in his lap.

Later, after the five of them have talked for what feels like hours, Suga only giving Kuroo and Daichi the same information Oikawa knows already besides revealing his own ability, which, miraculously, no one mentions, they trudge back downstairs, Daichi waving them off when all three of them insist on helping clean up.

"It’s fine, we can handle the feathers," he assures them, pushing Yamaguchi towards the door when the other boy hesitates, peering around the room sheepishly, flushed again with mortification.

"Besides, isn’t there somebody waiting for you at home?" Kuroo reminds them, Kunimi having come up in the earlier conversation much to Yamaguchi’s surprise and delight, a dazzling smile breaking out on his face when he realized that Suga wasn’t the only one he had finally reunited with.

Suddenly, Yamaguchi can’t leave fast enough.

The first thing Oikawa hears when he unlocks his front door and pushes it open is Kunimi’s angry voice.

"Where have you two been? Do you realize it’s been almost two hours when you said you would be gone for half an ho-"

Kunimi’s rant cuts off as fast as it began, his breath leaving him as if he’s been punched in the stomach, when his eyes land on Yamaguchi, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

Suga and Oikawa stand to the side, wait for Kunimi to stop staring at Yamaguchi as if he’s a ghost, his already pale face turning even more ashy, dark eyes darting up and down Yamaguchi’s frame like he’s trying to re-memorize someone he already knows so well.

"Kunimi-," Yamaguchi starts, tears welling up in his large, green eyes, before he chokes, hands visibly shaking at his sides.

Kunimi is a blur of dark hair and shining eyes as he rushes forward, nearly toppling Yamaguchi over when he throws himself at him, the two stumbling a little until they right themselves, Yamaguchi burying his face in Kunimi’s neck and returning the taller boy’s embrace tightly, furiously.

Suga watches the two with a face that is on the verge of breaking down, smiling as his mouth trembles, eyes watery when Yamaguchi begins to cry uncontrollably, Kunimi running soft fingers through his hair, his face uncharacteristically gentle, pressing the side of his face to Yamaguchi’s, their tears intermingling, shining, shimmering, dripping down to fall from their chins as he mouths soft words into Yamaguchi’s ear.

Oikawa doesn’t hesitate to tighten his hand around Suga’s when he feels seeking fingers lace through his own.

He holds a hand that used to be bruised, painted in colors of pain and desperation, and watches alongside Suga as another piece of the puzzle fits into place, crying and shaking but wonderfully, miraculously there.

"Can we talk?"

Oikawa keeps his voice neutral, low enough for only Suga to hear, Yamaguchi and Kunimi curled up together on the living room couch, the smaller boy already asleep despite the noon sun filtering in through the windows, glinting off of steel and glass outside, highlighting a city that is fully awake and functioning, loud and brash and ever-changing.

Suga glances up from where he’s been helping Oikawa dry some dishes they’ve just washed after lunch, setting a plate down and regarding Oikawa with a crease in his brow.

"It’s nothing serious," Oikawa rushes to assure him, wiping at a spot on the counter with a dishtowel to avoid Suga’s eyes because it might just be a little bit serious, depending on Suga’s answer to the question that’s been bothering Oikawa since this morning, since it occurred to him amongst a floor of feathers.

"Okay," Suga says, and Oikawa can tell he’s unconvinced, but he still follows Oikawa back to his bedroom, Kunimi also having drifted off, his chin resting against the top of Yamaguchi’s head, the living room quiet apart from their slow and steady breaths.

Oikawa closes the door behind Suga, winces a little when he realizes how messy his room is, the bedcovers crumpled at the bottom of the bed, clothes thrown across the floor haphazardly, but Suga doesn’t seem to notice the clutter, just faces Oikawa and waits for the latter to speak, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

"Is something wrong?" Suga blurts before Oikawa can speak, obviously impatient to find out why Oikawa has decided to call an impromptu secret meeting, his eyes glinting with apprehension.

Oikawa shakes his head quickly, moves to throw some clothes into his closet just to do something with his hands.

"I just realized something earlier, in the café," he starts, Suga sitting down on the edge of his bed.

The clothes are cleared up in no time, so Oikawa shuts his closet door and moves to make his bed, trying to push through his muddled thoughts to figure out how to best word his next sentence.

He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous to ask Suga about the name of the organization he was raised by, so hesitant to ask Suga about the meaning behind the words inscribed on the identical bracelets all three of them wear, but it could be because he suspects Suga never mentioned either of the answers for a reason that’s not necessarily a good one.

He reaches for the black bedcover only for his hands to be stopped by Suga’s, the other boy peering up at him in definite concern now, eyes questioning, his fingers warm against Oikawa’s, silver hair a startling contrast against the dark color of Oikawa’s sheets, and Oikawa realizes he’s been stalling unknowingly.

"Oikawa, are you okay?"

Oikawa breathes out shakily, lets himself sink to sit down on the bed as well, close enough to feel Suga’s breath on his cheek, turning his palms up to fit his hands more securely around Suga’s, studying the shape of their fingers, Oikawa’s longer and more bony, Suga’s softer but covered in a few scars, long, pale cuts across his skin, a couple littering the backs of his hands.

Oikawa suddenly wants to ask Suga about how he got them, wants to trace over them and listen to Suga’s breath catch, wants to press his lips to the skin that used to be bruised in colors that were too pretty to belong to something so painful.

Suga lets go of one hand then, disentangling their fingers, and Oikawa automatically moves to shift away, opens his mouth to apologize, cursing himself silently for making the situation awkward and getting distracted on top of it.

But the soft slide of fingers across his cheek effectively stops all of Oikawa’s thought processes, Suga tilting Oikawa’s face towards him gently, his face anything but uncomfortable or disgusted when Oikawa dares to make eye contact.

Instead, Suga looks warm and lovely and worried, his eyebrows pulling together in the middle of his forehead, the fingers of his other hand still laced through Oikawa’s, all of the places where they’re touching, his palm gentle and curved to the shape of Oikawa’s jaw, sending slow, slow heat through Oikawa’s limbs until it collects in the pit of his stomach.

Oikawa tries to speak, but he can’t focus on forming words when he’s close enough to count Suga’s eyelashes, close enough to feel the heat of Suga’s eyes on his face, burning gold, the mole at his eye like a point in a constellation that draws Oikawa in, reels him in until he’s falling.

Suga looks like he’s having the same problem, opening his mouth to speak and then letting it fall closed again, the crease in his forehead smoothing out a little bit more with each passing second until his expression teeters more on wonder, on anticipation.

Oikawa doesn’t realize they’ve gravitated closer until he feels his forehead bump into Suga’s, the two of them hovering there, breathing each other in, Oikawa’s gaze dropping to Suga’s mouth, parted slightly and soft, unconsciously, and he’s supposed to be asking Suga something, called him in here for a reason, but the thought is fleeting, fluttering, disappearing in a glimmer of silver before Oikawa can catch it.

"Oikawa," Suga says then, barely getting the syllables out, his voice unsteady, but not making any move to put distance between them when Oikawa shifts closer, his heart beating uncontrollably in his chest, wondering when the sound of his name coming from Suga’s lips began to have such an effect on him, when being this close made his chest ache and his hands flutter to drag Suga closer until the space between them disappeared completely.

Oikawa can’t think straight, Suga’s fingers still resting at his cheek, so he does what comes to him naturally, reaching out with unsteady fingers to tilt Suga’s chin up, his thumb brushing across the corner of Suga’s mouth, smoothing over that tiny scar Oikawa had noticed the first night he had met him.

Suga’s eyes fall shut, even as he pushes closer into Oikawa’s space at the touch, and Oikawa exhales shakily, tries to move slowly, feels like he’s slowly losing his mind even though nothing has even happened yet.

Suga’s hand slides down from his face, fingertips tracing lines down Oikawa’s neck that feel like they’re leaving burning comets in their wake until his palm rests open right above Oikawa’s hammering heart, eyes fluttering back open to gaze at Oikawa with copper and gold, open and trusting, shy even.

Oikawa wants to kiss him so, so badly, wants to close the last blank space between their mouths and kiss Suga until both of them are gasping, wants to hold Suga close and count the beauty marks scattered across his arms, wants to tell him that everything will turn out okay, that it’ll all be fine, that Oikawa will print Suga’s stars along his spine and never let anyone take them.

He’s so close, close enough to breathe in cinnamon and black tea, close enough to nudge his nose under Suga’s chin, slowly, lovingly, a startlingly intimate gesture, to trace a line from there to Suga’s hairline, his own eyelids growing heavy and fluttering closed, to feel Suga’s shuddering exhale against his throat and meet it with one of his own, to feel Suga’s fingers curl into the front of Oikawa’s shirt, to feel the press of plastic through the thin material.

The last sensation seems to break through everything else suddenly, the band wrapped around Suga’s wrist edging against the skin of Oikawa’s chest, causing him to pause, eyes opening slowly, a shiver of cold air breaking through the heady fog in his head.

Suga seems to sense Oikawa’s sudden hesitation, going just as still, pulling away an inch, two inches, the words that Oikawa wants to say, _"Wait, stay, don’t go,"_ caught behind his teeth, right there but refusing to spill from his lips.

Instead Suga follows Oikawa’s gaze down, both of their eyes resting on gold words and a black line, a tether, an imprisonment, that Suga and the other can’t, or won’t, take off.

And Oikawa remembers what he had initially wanted to ask, feels his stomach twist, feels horrible for the next words out of his mouth, quiet and trapped between the two of them, Suga’s eyes shifting from confused to worried to averted as soon as they register, his hand dropping from Oikawa’s shirt, bowing his head even as Oikawa’s palms drift to cradle his face, unwilling to let go just yet, waiting, waiting, waiting for an answer.

"Why haven’t you ever mentioned their name?"

Suga knows what he’s referring to, and he’s quiet for a moment, refusing to look up at Oikawa’s face, his reaction only serving to convince Oikawa more that he’s not overanalyzing this, that there is a reason behind Suga never uttering the information, and dread is a dark creature that sinks shining, glass-like claws between Oikawa’s ribs.

Oikawa wracks his brain, tries to think of possible answers, tilts Suga’s face back up to his, thumbs stroking soothing lines under his eyes because it’s clearly obvious now that Suga is upset, lips tugged downwards, irises shining with rosy clouds of shame, and he meets Oikawa’s eyes reluctantly, his words when they finally come choppy and reluctant.

"Oikawa, I- I didn’t want to say anything until I figured out more, until I talked to the others-"

He cuts off again, biting his lower lip, raising hands that are now cold to wrap his fingers loosely around Oikawa’s wrists, and Oikawa urges him on gently, nods and tries to school his features into an expression of understanding, but doesn’t say anything, just waits and tries to ignore how hard his heart is pounding, for an entirely different reason now.

Suga takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, the shadows of his eyelashes spreading over his cheeks, lines of ink that look like matchsticks, ready to spark into flame with a blink.

"I tried," he says, voice now frighteningly calm, keeping his eyes shut, "tried so many times the first few nights after we escaped."

There’s a pause, short enough to feel nonexistent, long enough to feel like an eternity, a flap of wings, a falling star that burns to pieces, a sharp intake of breath at the sight of a boy strapped down, experimented on, a lifetime spent looking for a smile, and finally, finally, Suga speaks, eyes opening, as lost as Oikawa feels.

"I can’t remember."


	15. streaks of violet and cloudbursts

"Every time I try to think of it, there’s a white space," Suga continues, fingers like ice against Oikawa’s skin, eyes glittering cold with bewilderment. "It’s gone, erased, even though I know I should remember. I talked to Kunimi and he said he’s had the same problem, and I was going to ask Yamaguchi, but he just found us and I didn’t want to worry him, not after everything-"

"Suga, breathe," Oikawa says quickly, soothingly, because Suga is starting to ramble, his pulse beating an unsteady rhythm at his throat.

Suga squeezes his eyes shut, inhales slowly and then exhales, lets his shoulders relax and his grip around Oikawa’s wrists loosen.

Oikawa thinks about what it would be like to forget something that should’ve been imprinted in your memory forever, to have it slip through your fingers like water until it was gone, to have it disappear in a breath and yet still remember that it had existed, that it must still exist, just not in your head.

"Is there anything else you’ve forgotten besides that?" Oikawa asks once Suga is breathing evenly again, once he’s opened his eyes and they’re clearer, less clouded over with panic.

Oikawa lets his hands slide from Suga’s jaw, traces the fragile curves of Suga’s wrists and then tangles their fingers together, tries to press warmth into Suga’s icy palms.

It’s a heavy question, paints the air in shades of garnet, asks if there are other white spaces, blank spaces, inside Suga’s head, black holes of information where there should’ve been galaxies.

"The name was the first thing I noticed," Suga says quietly, gaze lowered to stare at their hands, clasped together firmly in Oikawa’s lap. "It was such a big gap in my memory that it was the only thing I focused on for the first few days. I thought that maybe it was a security precaution around the building that the teachers had put there, that maybe it was meant to keep anyone who left from revealing the facility’s name."

Oikawa barely even blinks at Suga’s suggestion of some kind of memory force-field. After everything he’s seen, Suga could tell him that Kunimi can fly and Oikawa would probably be mostly unfazed.

"That reasoning made sense later when I realized that I couldn’t remember any of the teachers’ names, only their faces," Suga mutters, frowning, probably trying to reach for those names even as he and Oikawa sit there.

He pauses, watches Oikawa rub a thumb over the back of his hand, watches as if somehow, the names will appear on his skin, connected lines of black ink that would mean something, that would give him back something else that he had lost.

"But then I woke up one morning, the morning after we found Kunimi, and I couldn’t remember what my room had looked like. I couldn’t remember what I had eaten for dinner the night that we left, or what colors the flowers in the garden outside had been in spring, or if I had picked up that book I had dropped in the library a few nights before. Little things, insignificant things, but still memories I should’ve had."

Suga looks up at Oikawa then, a bitter smile gracing his features, wry and glassy, delicate, shimmering, easily breakable. 

"I remember reaching for that book on the shelf to show Kenma, I remember opening it, I even remember the sound it had made when it slipped from my fingers and hit the floor, and what it looked like, all of the pages fluttering, but I can’t remember what happened after. I can’t remember anything about what happened _after_."

Oikawa’s mind has been orbiting around one obvious fact the entire time Suga’s been speaking, and now, when Suga goes silent, his voice jerking to a stop, he voices it out loud.

"Someone did this to you and the others on purpose," he says, knowing it’s the only explanation, and Suga nods.

"I thought that maybe one of the other kids at the facility had been asked to put a memory block around the institution for the reason I mentioned earlier," Suga says quickly. "But this is more than that. This was done intentionally, most likely on all of us, when we weren’t paying attention or maybe when we were sleeping, right before we escaped because one of us would’ve noticed something was wrong earlier than now."

Oikawa stares at him, thinks about how Suga probably doesn’t even have an inkling about who could’ve done it if Kunimi’s words about keeping their abilities a secret are true, waits for Suga to say the one thing they’re both thinking.

He does, eventually, voice low and serious and, underneath it all, afraid, the emotion strong enough that Oikawa can see it in his eyes, streaks of violet, can feel it in the tremble of his fingers, and he pulls Suga to his chest, muffles the words between them, as if he can push them and their meaning, compress them, into nothing.

"I just don’t know why."

Yamaguchi laughs, clear and tinkling, at something Kunimi says to him, the two of them huddled in the armchair together, somehow having squished their long limbs into the small space by some feat of determination.

Yamaguchi’s nose is red from the cold, snow still decorating his dark hair like fairy lights, but the heat in the apartment is on full blast and Oikawa can already see the puddles of water forming by the door from the sludge caked on the bottoms of their shoes.

He’s just returned from Crow’s Coffee with Yamaguchi, Daichi staying after closing the shop up after he had gotten Oikawa’s text about Yamaguchi having to erase the ceiling in case someone looking for them recognized it like Suga had.

Erasing the painting had been quick, effortless, Yamaguchi standing in the middle of the café, still and concentrated, his eyes closed and face tranquil, his freckles dark and prominent against the washed out pallor of his skin under the few lights that were still on, the colors on the ceiling swiped away with quick, graceful movements of his hands, wiped clean until the ceiling had returned to its original white.

Daichi had shaken himself when it was over, his mouth hanging open slightly, a wry grin on his face when he had said, "I’ll never get used to that."

Oikawa had silently agreed right before Yamaguchi had tried to give Daichi back the hundred dollars he had paid him for the painting, Daichi warding the insistent boy off with both hands raised, telling him to keep the money anyway, for later use.

As soon as they had returned, tumbling through the front door half-frozen just a few seconds ago, Kunimi had beckoned a cold Yamaguchi over to curl up next to him, Suga emerging from the guest bedroom with wet hair from the shower, the smooth span of his pale thighs visible below the sleep shorts he’d decided to put on, socks pulled up over his calves to his knees.

"Did it go okay?" Suga asks, and Yamaguchi says something in answer, but it’s lost on Oikawa, the words not getting past his sudden inability to think and process actual sentences.

The snickering coming from the armchair is probably due to Oikawa’s current facial expression. The double-take had been purely subconscious, but now he can’t seem to shake himself from staring at Suga, mouth suddenly dry and the back of his neck hot.

The moment from this morning in Oikawa’s bedroom had been broken by the seriousness of Suga’s admission, but now, with melted drops of snow sliding down Oikawa’s back and Suga blushing when he registers Oikawa’s stare, Kunimi’s judging expression, and Yamaguchi’s quiet laughter, Oikawa can’t help but remember heat and the overwhelming desire to pull Suga closer than he already had been, to eliminate any remaining space between them.

Before, seeing Suga in his clothes had had a neutral effect on Oikawa, but right now he can’t keep himself from watching a drop of water roll down the graceful length of Suga’s neck and disappear under the loose shirt collar, from tracing the slender shapes of Suga’s calves and wondering what it would feel like to have those legs wrapped around his waist-

Someone coughs loudly and Oikawa snaps out of his daze, quickly averting his eyes and trying not to make eye contact with either of the boys currently occupying his armchair because he can hear the poorly muffled noises of them trying to quiet their amusement.

His ears burn.

Suga is about as red as the sweater he has on.

Oikawa mumbles something unintelligible, brain still fuzzy, and quickly escapes to his room to change, ignoring the not-so-quiet laughter that follows and pressing cold hands to his hot face.

Dinner is a quick affair, Yamaguchi swaying on his feet in the kitchen with exhaustion until Suga nudges him back towards the bedroom, Kunimi quickly following with sleepy eyes, hooking an arm through Yamaguchi’s and letting the shorter boy lean his head against his shoulder.

The kitchen is chilly again with the night settling deeper amongst the city, the hardwood floor cool even through Oikawa’s socks, so he cleans up quickly, leaves the dishwasher half-open because he’ll run it in the morning, pushes the kitchen table chairs back in, takes a moment to gaze outside the window, watches icy rain fall down now instead of snow, a steady pitter-patter against the glass, watches a sea of multi-colored umbrellas float by on the street below, Crow’s Coffee’s dark windows reflecting the bright colors and streetlights, the fluorescent, white glows of cellphone screens like floating lanterns along the sidewalks, the road a glossy, ebony streak through the middle of it all.

His eyes linger on Crow’s Coffee for a moment longer before he turns away, flipping off the kitchen light.

He had exchanged cellphone numbers with Kuroo and Daichi before leaving this morning with Suga and Yamaguchi, just in case the two baristas needed to be in contact with any of them at any time, and the knowledge that there are two other people who now know about Suga and the others simultaneously comforts and worries Oikawa.

He thinks of Suga’s words from earlier, of a room with four white walls, empty and bare, of ivory flowers, their petals translucent and colorless, like rain drops, of a book with no words slipping from Suga’s long, pale fingers and making no noise when it hits the ground.

"Do you need help- oh."

Suga is back in the living room, his voice interrupting Oikawa’s lonely thoughts, hands pulled up into his sweater sleeves, eyes peering over Oikawa’s shoulder to take in the clean kitchen.

He cranes his head back to narrow his eyes at Oikawa, frowning half-heartedly, a tiny crease in the middle of his forehead.

"You should’ve waited for me to help you," Suga scolds, but Oikawa only grins at him and grabs the ends of his sweater paws, an idea quickly forming in his head.

He needs a distraction before he worries more about Suga’s memory loss, and Suga needs to be averted from thinking about the lost memories as well before he begins to question what’s actually real and what’s not.

Oikawa’s seen enough sci-fi movies to know that memory alterations are never a good thing.

"Don’t worry about it, Suga-chan," he sing-songs, dragging the other over to the couch. "I cleaned up so I could finally teach you about aliens. It’s basically a criminal offense that you don’t even know what they are."

Suga laughs softly, a gentle exhale, but doesn’t offer any resistance as Oikawa places both hands on his shoulders and sits him down, moving away to turn on the tv and grab a movie.

Oikawa hums as he debates between Star Wars or Star Trek, eventually settling on Alien instead and starting it, switching off the lamp and throwing the room into darkness, the light from the tv screen playing across Suga’s face in bursts of white and blue when Oikawa returns to sit next to him.

"So I’ll explain the basics while the commercials play," Oikawa says, throwing a blanket over their legs and grabbing a pillow to hold to his chest and rest his chin on, regarding Suga seriously.

Suga twists on the couch to sit facing Oikawa, giving him his undivided attention, the tips of his hair tinged platinum, some of it curling haphazardly from where he hadn’t dried it all of the way earlier.

For a moment, as Suga blinks at him with large eyes, his beauty mark washed out by the stark light dancing through the room, Oikawa considers forgoing the alien crash course and instead pulling some move he’s used on dates before to wrap his arm around Suga’s shoulders or hold his hand or actually kiss him before someone or something interrupts them, something like the classic yawn and stretch.

Not that this is a date, technically.

But Suga looks so eager to listen to Oikawa talk about aliens, a rare reaction in Oikawa’s past experiences, that Oikawa can’t help but start speaking instead.

"So I’m assuming you already know about space and universes and galaxies, right?" Oikawa asks, a little unsure.

Suga pouts at him in answer.

"I was raised by scientists," he points out, a little disgruntled, and Oikawa laughs before he can help it, reaching out and pushing one corner of Suga’s downturned mouth back up teasingly.

"Okay, okay, sorry, just checking," Oikawa apologizes, smirking and then yelping when Suga pokes him in the ribs, hard.

"Anyway," Oikawa continues, discarding the pillow to the floor and folding his hands over his sides to protect himself from any future attacks, "aliens live out there, in space, on different planets from ours. There have been lots of sightings, but most of them are hoaxes, so no one really knows what they look like or what language they speak."

He starts to say more, to explain his own theories, but Suga’s expression makes him pause.

Suga tilts his head to the side, absorbing Oikawa’s words.

"So why did you think I was one?" he asks curiously, obviously either not thinking about Oikawa’s answer or not expecting it because Oikawa has a feeling Suga doesn’t want to discuss the topic that is suddenly quickly approaching.

Oikawa pauses, turns to mimic Suga’s position to fully gauge Suga’s reaction when he says the next words.

"Because of what you showed me that first night," Oikawa says softly, and yes, there it is, a slight blush blooming over Suga’s pale face, the rose muted and watery in the tv light but still there, his eyes quickly flitting away from Oikawa’s and then back, fast enough to miss if Oikawa hadn’t been looking for it.

"Aliens can do the same thing?" Suga asks, clearing his throat, and Oikawa has a brief internal conflict about whether to press the matter or to answer Suga’s question.

He settles on both.

"They might," he says. "Or they could be just like us, humans who like eating pizza and watching crappy television and getting days off from work, and think we’re the aliens instead. Suga-"

Oikawa pauses, watches the small smile play across Suga’s lips at Oikawa’s previous answer, and then keeps going, saying the next words in a rush before he can stop himself.

"Kunimi told me about your guys’ abilities, how important they are to you, and he seemed surprised that you had shown me yours so quickly."

Oikawa leaves the unspoken question floating in the air, both of them aware of the silent _"Why?"_.

Suga’s not smiling anymore, just flushing more furiously, obviously avoiding Oikawa’s gaze now, his lashes lowered as he twists his fingers in the blanket, traces nonsensical patterns across the fabric with the tip of his finger.

He swallows hard before speaking.

"I guess I should’ve said something about that," he murmurs, voice hushed and almost covered by the flashy commercial that is now playing across the tv screen, bright orange explosions reflecting across the walls, brightening the room enough for Oikawa to see how far Suga’s blush has traveled, staining the length of his neck and spreading across the tops of his collarbones. "It must seem like I’ve been keeping a lot of important information secret, huh?"

He looks up at Oikawa briefly, expression apologetic, ashamed, but Oikawa shakes his head quickly.

"I understand why," Oikawa answers, his heart beating just a little louder because Suga’s about to reveal the answer to a question that has flitted around inside Oikawa’s head ever since Kunimi said anything, that he’s been reminded of every time Yamaguchi showed Kuroo and Daichi his ability or Kunimi watched Oikawa with sharp eyes that asked the same question, trying to take him apart and find an answer that Oikawa himself didn’t know.

He wonders vaguely if Kunimi ever asked Suga about it.

"But I want you to be able to tell me anything," Oikawa adds, his own cheeks burning right after he hears how that sounds.

Suga’s fingers stop their brief, fleeting movements across the blanket, his shoulders hitching with a sharp inhale, and he looks up again, this time keeping his eyes on Oikawa’s face, the gold shining with reflected tv light, with surprise, with something Oikawa can’t pinpoint but that makes him feel warm all over.

He can’t breathe when he feels Suga’s fingers slide over the backs of his hands, Oikawa turning his palms over automatically to welcome the embrace, locking their fingers together in a loose tangle that he’s just now realizing has felt bone-achingly familiar ever since he met Suga.

"I don’t know why," Suga says quietly, honest and tender, Oikawa’s eyes dropping to the movement of his throat when he swallows. "I just felt like I could, or maybe like I should."

He laughs a little, embarrassment shimmering in his eyes, says, "I felt like I needed to, that it would be okay if it was you," and then he begins to loosen his grip on Oikawa’s hands, moves to let go, says, "I understand if that sounds weird-"

"It’s not," Oikawa says quickly, breathlessly, desperate to reassure Suga that no, it’s not weird at all, that Oikawa recognizes it too, can feel it more clearly now, that small tug on his heart, a string that is bright violet wrapped around his wrist, connected to his pulse, that connects them and tangles with the ever-changing threads of both of their lives, a constant amongst all of the color and the shadows.

He tightens his grip around Suga’s fingers, ducks his head to meet Suga’s downturned eyes, and smiles when the other boy finally looks at him, Oikawa’s pulse beating wildly at his wrists because he knows neither of them really understand what it is, but they do know it’s not just a part of their imagination.

A loud sound from the tv breaks the silence, and Suga turns his head towards the screen, watches a Star Wars commercial begin.

Oikawa plays with Suga’s fingers, their hands still comfortably clasped between them, studies the other boy’s side profile silently and knows they’re both quietly processing what Suga’s words mean, letting the new information bloom under their ribs, beautiful and delicate, letting it grow to unfurl paper-thin petals against their hearts, dripping solar systems with each breath, millions and millions of glittering, burning stars, while they sit with their knees pushed together and listen to the cloudbursts of rain against the windows.

Suga is a painting, a statue, in the dark, a curl of silver hair resting across his forehead, watery light from outside dancing across his face, his features so familiar now that Oikawa thinks he would recognize him fifty years from now, will always find those eyes and the shape of his mouth and that starpoint under his left eye.

Oikawa looks down, draws a circle around one of the scars on the backs of Suga’s hand, fits their palms together and tries to measure the empty space where Suga’s fingers aren’t long enough to completely cover his.

Suga finally turns back to face Oikawa, the flush on his cheeks slightly lessened, his eyes sparkling, running a soft thumb over the bone under the thin skin at Oikawa’s wrist.

"Now that you mention aliens," he says, completely serious, eyes bright but contemplative, "I think I did hear one of the teachers say something about an extraterrestrial one time in the hall. Something about one of them coming to stay with us for a while and where it would sleep."

Oikawa’s heart stops, any thoughts he had been having earlier wiped clean like Yamaguchi’s painting, and he gapes, sputtering out something that doesn’t even make sense, until he notices the suspicious twitch at the corner of Suga’s mouth, the mischief in his eyes.

Suga doesn’t hold his poker face for very long when Oikawa narrows his eyes at him in suspicion, quickly dissolving into a burst of giggles.

"Mean, Suga-chan!" Oikawa all-but shouts, Suga sliding his fingers from Oikawa’s to cover his mouth and stifle his laughter, eyes creasing shut.

Oikawa whacks Suga’s arm, but it only serves to make Suga double over, shoulders shaking while Oikawa sulks.

Oikawa quickly collects himself, the pout on his face giving way for a smirk, and Suga doesn’t even have time to think about escaping before Oikawa throws himself forward, tackling the other back into the couch, fingers finding Suga’s ribs and showing no mercy.

"Stop- ahahaha, I’m sorry- Wait-," Suga gasps in between his laughs, squirming under Oikawa to avoid the tickling, but Oikawa has enough height on the other to keep him pinned, the blanket now a tangled mess between them, their legs intertwined on the opposite end of the couch.

"This is revenge, Suga-chan," Oikawa declares dramatically, straddling Suga’s hips and grinning down at him.

"Oikawa- please, hahaha-"

Suga’s voice breaks off, laughing too hard to form words anymore, tears in his eyes, his fingers wrapping around Oikawa’s wrists and trying to pry his fingers from his sides, his eyes half-closed so all Oikawa can see are slivers of gold, hair a mess around his face.

Oikawa stops his tickling attack once Suga manages to move his arms far enough away that he can’t reach him anymore, relaxing and staring down at Suga who’s blinking his eyes open and half-frowning, half-smiling up at Oikawa, his face flushed and his sweater riding up to reveal a sliver of pale skin above the sleep shorts, another beauty mark visible right along the sharp edge of his right hipbone.

Oikawa makes a noise, his thoughts colliding, messy and unorganized, tearing his eyes away from the spot and then slumping on top of Suga with a groan, burying his face that is suddenly just as pink as Suga’s in the other boy’s neck to hide his expression, wrapping arms around his shoulders and settling more comfortably against his chest, breathing in and out slowly to slow his racing heart, feeling like Suga has once again turned the tables on him without even trying.

Suga pinches him in the side in retaliation for the tickling, eliciting a muffled yelp, but doesn’t push Oikawa’s weight off or say anything, just shifts, wriggling out from under Oikawa’s body until he’s not being crushed anymore, until they’re lying face-to-face on the couch, Suga’s back to the tv screen as the movie begins to play, the familiar beginning music washing over Oikawa’s thoughts and intermingling with the smell of Suga’s skin and the ticklish brush of his hair against Oikawa’s forehead.

Oikawa sighs, thinks about tilting his face up the few inches it would take to let their mouths brush, but Suga is wrapping arms around Oikawa’s middle and sliding down to change their positions, nuzzling his face into the front of Oikawa’s t-shirt and sighing happily, softly, as if he’s going to sleep and Oikawa is content for now to just run his fingers through the tangles in Suga’s hair and feel his heartbeat pressed to Oikawa’s skin, to hold him impossibly close and brush a lingering kiss to his forehead because it feels right, Suga’s fingers tightening around the back of his shirt, knuckles pressing permanent marks to his skin, indentations that leave lines of silver behind.

Oikawa pulls the blanket up over their legs and waists, settles more firmly against the back of the couch, traces the back of Suga’s neck and watches the movie play out through half-lidded eyes until he can’t stay awake any longer, Suga already breathing slow against him, face tucked down and a hand now trapped between their chests, and Oikawa doesn’t care one bit that he didn’t get to finish his introductory course to aliens.

He falls asleep to the rhythm of rain against the windows and the background noise of the tv and the echo of Suga’s words in his ears as the other boy mumbles and shifts closer, presses his face to Oikawa’s throat.

_"It would be okay if it was you."_

Outside, the rain slows to a soft drizzle, coating the sidewalks in ice and leaving traces of itself everywhere, dripping umbrellas resting inside front doors, dirty shoe prints across floors, shimmering drops caught in eyelashes and cold fingers wrapping around steaming cups of tea, the raindrops falling in a diaphanous curtain that leaves everything crystallized, that runs down windows in glittering rivulets and disguises even the most familiar of roads, turning neon lights into watercolors and smearing the shades across everything in messy blooms.

The rain even manages to disguise the figure standing outside Oikawa’s apartment although they aren’t wearing anything to hide their face.

They stand on the sidewalk, unmoving, face tilted up towards Oikawa’s window with its galaxy-print curtains, their black boots soaked through, the jeans tucked into them not much better off, hands and neck bare, the smooth white skin shimmering with a layer of water, their hair wet and dripping cold, cold down the back of their neck, shards of ice edging in next to their lungs.

They stand there and look and let the people that pass by rush around them even as they seem immobilized in time, even as the rain runs like tears down their face.

And then they turn and walk away, the rain welcoming them with glittering, shimmering splashes against the backs of their hands, against the gold words wrapped around their wrist, disappearing into the crowd just like the memory of colorless flowers.


	16. blank spaces and glittering edges

_White, blank, empty._

_Oikawa stands in the middle of nowhere and everything is covered in the color of snow, the floor, the ceiling, the walls, all of it stretching on forever._

_He looks down, the black sneakers he’s wearing that are covered in mud a startling contrast against everything, the dirt splattered along the bottoms of his sweatpants and the front of his t-shirt, and he’s seen this somewhere, seen these clothes on someone else._

_His hands look different when he raises them from his sides. Smaller, the skin lighter, stretching over sharp knuckles and slender fingers, a dark mole at the inside of his right wrist, pale, silvery scars scratched and scattered at irregular intervals on his palms, across the backs of these hands that he’s beginning to realize are not his._

_"Suga," Oikawa says out loud, or maybe he thinks it, because it’s impossible to know in this endless white on white on white._

_He’s in Suga’s body._

_As soon as the realization settles over him, slow and gentle and muddled in this void space he’s stuck in, there’s a different kind of white in his peripheral vision, brighter, sharper, raindrops made of the white-hot heat of stars._

_Oikawa looks down, watches the light flare from under his t-shirt, glowing through the thin fabric, right over his heart, watches as it spreads shining tendrils, vines, strings of colorless brightness that grow and stretch over the curve of his shoulder, traveling down his arm until Oikawa can see that the light is under his skin, filling his veins and glittering, shimmering, turning already pale skin almost translucent, glass-like._

_Oikawa isn’t alarmed. He’s not worried or confused. In fact, he doesn’t feel anything, just watches as the branches of luminescence spread to the tips of his fingers and then spill over, shards of light, sparks, falling, falling, falling until they hit the floor and disappear._

_Oikawa watches and doesn’t feel anything, numb from the inside out until he feels the wetness on his- no Suga’s- no, their face, feels the tears as they drip down their cheeks and tremble at their chin, watches them fall with the stars, dotting the white floor beneath his shoes._

_His eyes catch on a single fleck of light, and he watches it drop, watches it descend almost as if in slow motion, sees it bounce once, twice, against the floor, flashing once more before it’s gone._

_And the pain hits._

_Excruciating, blinding pain that erupts from his chest like a star collapsing in on itself, that claws at his ribs and leaves him gasping, pain that makes him want to scream but that also makes it impossible to make a sound, pain that brings him to his knees._

_Only, when he drops, Suga’s legs crumpling beneath him, he doesn’t hit hard floor, doesn’t feel his knees make contact with anything, just empty space that sends him tumbling, down, down, down, until the white walls and the white floor and the white ceiling disappear like the shards of light, replaced with a blanket of onyx and amethyst and cerulean that glitters with an immeasurable number of stars._

_The pain disappears as he falls and then slows to a stop, leaves him floating amongst a night sky, his mouth parted on a gasp and his hands outstretched to grab onto something, anything, pale shapes in the dark, still Suga’s hands, and the realization calms Oikawa, replaces the copper tang of pain and fear in his mouth with something that tastes like lavender, like cinnamon, like black tea._

_He relaxes, lets his muscles loosen until he’s hovering on his back, sneakers dangling below him as if he’s in water instead of air, eyes drinking in the stunning surroundings in breathless awe, a sea of color and incandescence that pushes and pulls around him like the tide, that envelops him completely and pushes every other thought out of his mind with a gentle hand, soothing, warm, that brushes his bangs back from his face._

_Oikawa is content to stay here forever, to float up and up and up and never come back down, to watch the stars and never close his eyes, to forget everything else, forget the pain from before and the white walls and the tears that dropped from his face like rain._

_But there had been something else besides all of that, something more before this, something he had held in his hands that had been even more beautiful than the sky around him now, something bright and delicate and perfect._

_The thought starts out small, a slight nuisance at the edge of his brain that is only filled with splashes of lavender and sapphire, a tiny voice in the back of his mind that whispers words he can’t make out, that pushes and pushes and pushes until he can’t ignore it._

_It grows, gets larger, fills his thoughts with flower petals edged with silver and endless pages of a book that start out blank until ink-black words cover their surfaces, swirling lines that spell the same word over and over and over again, the same word that echoes in his ears._

_"Remember," it seems to say, to murmur, to scream, until he can’t focus on the sky anymore, until he can’t take the silence anymore._

_"Stop!" he says, shouts, whispers, covering his ears with his hands._

_And everything shatters, the sky around him breaking apart into a million black feathers that shimmer blue and purple as they fall._

_There’s a giant rush of wind, a flap of wings, and Oikawa blinks, opens his eyes to a room with four white walls and a window that looks out onto a garden full of ivory flowers, a book full of blank pages resting open on his chest, sliding away when he sits up on the bed he’s lying on._

_He can tell immediately that he’s himself again, can feel the familiar ache in his knee that flares up from time to time, can see his own hands when he stands up and steadies himself against one of the white walls._

_There’s a door, and Oikawa immediately makes his way towards it, feels the irrepressible urge to get somewhere, to find someone, another white hallway on the other side when he turns the handle._

_But this one isn’t endless like the last. This hallway has turns and doors and dead ends, and Oikawa wanders down them, walks past windows that reveal more colorless petals, until he reaches a hall with one door that’s different from the others._

_This door is cracked open, the tiniest sliver of light escaping through, the first color Oikawa’s seen here because even his skin looks unpigmented, his clothes bleached._

_It’s three steps forward, five fingers against the door, one push, and suddenly noise and color are crashing into Oikawa._

_There are so many people bustling around the room inside, clad in black and gold, that Oikawa almost misses the one person that isn’t moving, the one that’s strapped down to a bed in the middle of it all, silver hair fanned out over the pillow under his head, eyes closed and fingers unfurled at his sides._

_But Oikawa sees him between one breath and the next, sees with quickly dawning horror the beeping machines all around the figure, sees the tubes and the wires and the scratch of pens against paper as measurements are taken, as buttons are pushed._

_Oikawa takes a step into the room, a name on his lips, nausea swirling in the pit of his stomach, anger ripping through his chest, panic numbing the tips of his fingers._

_And as if he can sense Oikawa’s presence, the boy’s eyes fly open, gold finding Oikawa’s face._

_Suga’s mouth opens._

_And then he screams._

_"Oikawa! Oikawa, wake up, you’re dreaming, wake up!"_

_For a moment, Oikawa feels sickeningly disoriented, turned upside down, trapped in a nightmare._

_And then he feels the hands on his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin, feels the cold sweat covering his forehead and upper lip, and his eyes fly open as he shoots straight up, breath caught in his throat._

_It’s dark around him, but his vision quickly adjusts, and he sees his front door and the pile of shoes in front of it, sees the blanket tangled around his ankles and raises his hands to see trembling fingers._

_There’s a featherlight touch on his right shoulder, and Oikawa jumps even as he remembers putting a movie on and falling asleep here, finds Suga still somehow perched on the edge of the couch when he turns his head, silver hair falling over his forehead and his mouth tugging down into a frown, eyes sleep-heavy and worried._

_"Are you okay?" he asks._

_Oikawa breathes for the first time since he woke up, exhales shakily, lets his hands drop back down into his lap and tries to shake the lingering images of empty pages and colorless doors and one of Suga’s pale arms strapped down by bands of black and gold from his head._

_"Just a dream," he thinks to himself, squeezing his hands together, entangling his fingers and tightening his grip until his knuckles turn white, listening to his breaths and counting them, one, two, three, slower, four, five, six, relax, seven, eight, nine._

_"Yeah," he says when he’s satisfied with how much slower his heart is beating now, loosening the grip he has in his lap until feeling tingles back into the tips of his fingers, pinpricks of static. "It was just a nightmare."_

_Suga’s hand is still on his shoulder, the tv lit with the default menu for Alien, and Oikawa reaches to tangle their fingers together._

_His fingers grasp empty air._

_Oikawa turns in confusion, meets Suga’s eyes because he’s still there but not at the same time, the edges of his shoulders, the curves of his hands, the splash of ink at his left eye all wavering, flickering, disappearing as he turns more and more translucent._

_And there, between the two of them, lying in coils and loops and knots, the ends of both sides connected to their chests, tethering them together, is a violet string, glowing gently._

_Oikawa’s head whips up to meet Suga’s gaze, the other boy’s mouth curved up into a soft, bittersweet smile._

_"Are you awake?" Suga asks._

_The string snaps._

_Suga disappears._

Oikawa jerks awake, heart lurching in his chest.

He blinks blearily, sees his tv, Alien still playing, about half-way through if Oikawa’s whirling mind is remembering the movie right, sees his coffee table and a slice of streetlights and brick through a gap in his curtains.

Cold waves of relief crash over Oikawa’s head, the sick feeling in his stomach dissipating with the realization that he’s actually awake this time, able to pinch the skin at the inside of his elbow and feel pain, his mind slowly clearing.

Suga is still cradled against him, asleep, mouth parted slightly as he breathes slowly, evenly, so different from the rapid thundering of Oikawa’s pulse, and for a desperate second Oikawa feels like waking him up, just to hear his voice or see his eyes, to really make sure that Suga’s not going to fade into nothing like he had in the nightmare.

But Suga looks so peaceful, and he’s warm and there and still tucked to Oikawa’s chest, solid, murmuring in his sleep and shifting closer when Oikawa moves a little, so he doesn’t.

Instead he counts his breaths, closes his eyes, tangles fingers into the hair at the back of Suga’s head and wraps him more securely against him with the blanket, and tries to fall back to sleep.

_"Just a dream, only a dream,"_ he thinks to himself, trying to time his heartbeat with Suga’s, feeling the other breathe against his collarbone and not focusing on anything else.

_It was just a nightmare._

"You look like shit."

Oikawa sighs into his coffee and shoots Iwaizumi a tired, half-hearted glare.

Iwaizumi shrugs unapologetically.

"Just being honest," he says. "Are Futakuchi and his brother eating you out of house and home?"

Oikawa stares down into his cup, watches the cream swirl white lines through the caffeine, thinks of twisting, turning fluorescent hallways.

"No, they’re fine," he says truthfully, trying to carefully word his next sentence. "I just didn’t get much sleep last night."

It’s true, but Oikawa doesn’t want to elaborate on the why. He’d slept fitfully until the sun had finally risen for the day, waking in bursts and trying not to wake Suga as well.

He hadn’t mentioned the dream either, not even when Suga had stirred, blinking long eyelashes and flushing when the sleep cleared and he noticed Oikawa’s gaze.

Instead, Oikawa had plastered on a teasing grin despite how exhausted he had felt, had tucked Suga’s hair behind an ear and said something lighthearted that he can’t even remember now.

Iwaizumi hums, takes a sip of his own drink, some kind of café latte that he always gets here at this little café near his and Akaashi’s apartment.

It’s smaller than Crow’s Coffee, and brighter, the windows facing out onto a busy street and a few bright green plants situated near the front of the room.

Long tables of different heights are interspaced throughout and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line one wall, a coffee counter at the front, the strong, soothing smell of espresso hanging heavy in the air.

Akaashi’s usually here during the week when school is in session, writing out notes or typing up a paper, a cup of saffron tea near his elbow and ink on his fingers.

"Have you started staying up until 4:00 a.m. again watching old volleyball re-runs?" Iwaizumi asks, dark eyes watching Oikawa over the rim of his mug, waiting to call Oikawa out on a lie.

Oikawa huffs out a laugh, takes another large sip of his coffee because the caffeine is finally settling into his nerves and waking him up, driving away the uneasiness that’s been settled over his shoulders since he woke up last night.

"Just bad dreams," he says simply, summarizing the too-real pain and the night sky made of crow feathers and the two versions of Suga, one of them being treated like he was nothing more than an experiment and the other dematerializing right in front of his eyes, into three words.

Iwaizumi watches him for a beat longer than necessary, his gaze a familiar weight on Oikawa’s face, eyes that look for the little things underneath everything else Oikawa tries to throw up, eyes that have always managed to find the blank spaces in Oikawa’s grins or in his carefully thought-out, carefree words that usually manage to fool others, that used to hide a crippling sense of not good enough or the empty arms of loneliness or anger that tore at his ribs and made it hard to breathe not too long ago.

But Oikawa is telling the truth today, or some semblance of it, and Iwaizumi’s gaze breaks away, no words of confrontation escaping his mouth.

That doesn’t mean Iwaizumi hasn’t noticed other things.

"I’m surprised I haven’t had to come drag you away from the gym at school," he throws out, the words seemingly nonchalant, but Oikawa can hear the unspoken, _"Why?"_.

Oikawa tries not to, but he can’t help the easy smirk that slips onto his face, can’t help but lean forward and say, "Aww, do you miss our late-night rendezvouses on campus, Iwa-chan?"

He knows his lack of anything volleyball for the past two and a half weeks is beyond unusual for him, can feel the itch to be on the court, the familiar weight of a volleyball in his palms, especially after last night, knows that Iwaizumi is looking for answers where Oikawa can’t give them to him.

Iwaizumi flicks him in the middle of his forehead, Oikawa sitting back in his chair and pouting, rubbing at the aching spot.

"Shut up, Crappykawa," Iwaizumi says with no real heat, still waiting for Oikawa to let something slip. "I’m enjoying not having to babysit you every hour of the day while I can. Practice starts back up in two and a half weeks, you know."

Oikawa knows, is aware of how much time he has before classes and practice start up again, had already mentioned it briefly to Suga and the others right before leaving today to meet Iwaizumi for coffee, Suga ushering him out the front door and simultaneously reassuring him that they’d be fine for a few hours on their own, reminding him that Iwaizumi would only ask more questions if Oikawa didn’t go.

"Obviously," Oikawa answers lightly. "I’m ready to show everyone that I’m still the best setter even after a break full of holiday calories."

Iwaizumi snorts, mutters something into his coffee, but thankfully lets the topic slide for now, probably waiting for a more private atmosphere to corner Oikawa about his more than odd behavior lately.

"How’s the kitten?" Oikawa asks quickly, knowing that he needs to change the subject.

Iwaizumi’s eyes light up, the next ten minutes of conversation full of information about the newest addition to his and Akaashi’s apartment, about how Akaashi had named him Hamlet, but how he responded to any name if Iwaizumi said it the right way, about how he liked to sleep curled near their heads on the bed or sprawled across one of their chests, about how he still had the bad habit of leaping up onto the kitchen table when no one was looking.

Oikawa listens with a smile, never not amused by how Iwaizumi’s actual personality doesn’t quite match his appearance, how no one but the people who are close to him know that Iwaizumi is actually the kind of person to cry at the end of rom-coms and make babies laugh and let kittens sleep on his chest, who’s always there when his friends need him to be, when Oikawa needs him to be.

"Oi, have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? You have this weird, lovestruck expression on your face and it’s creeping me out."

Oikawa startles a little at the change in Iwaizumi’s tone, the other scowling at him, and realizes he’d been lost in his thoughts.

"Sorry, still trying to wake up," Oikawa explains sheepishly, finishing his coffee, and Iwaizumi sighs long-sufferingly.

"I was just telling you about how Ushiwaka asked Akaashi to text him updates about Hamlet the other night," he repeats. "And now Akaashi sends him pictures at least three times a day. Ushiwaka must have the patience of a saint or he just really loves Hamlet, and I still don’t know which one it is."

Oikawa shoots Iwaizumi a look of disbelief, one that’s mirrored on his best friend’s face, before they both hunch over the table and snicker.

"I think it’s the latter, believe it or not," Oikawa says once they’ve gotten the image of Ushijima cooing over text message images of a tiny kitten out of their heads.

Iwaizumi arches an eyebrow. "Well that’s not the only thing he’s in love with," he says suggestively, crossing his arms on top of the table and leaning forward as if he’s getting ready to share a secret.

Oikawa lets the implication of the words sink in and then frowns.

"What do you mean?" he asks even though he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.

"Hamlet isn’t the only thing Ushijima asked Akaashi about," Iwaizumi says, speaking deliberately slowly and being annoyingly vague on purpose, a smug smirk playing across his lips.

Oikawa’s frown deepens.

"Iwa-chan-," he starts, pitching his voice into that whine that he knows Iwaizumi can’t stand.

"Alright, fine, fine, shut up, I’ll tell you," Iwaizumi says quickly, narrowing his eyes at Oikawa briefly before they go back to sparkling with mischief, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the side of his coffee mug.

"Akaashi told me that Ushijima asked for Futakuchi’s number," he reveals, gauging Oikawa’s reaction and smirking further when Oikawa tries to play off the annoyance prickling down his spine with a roll of his eyes.

"Futakuchi," Oikawa says, tipping his chin up and struggling to not sound haughty, "is already seeing someone."

It’s a lie, obviously, but Oikawa is grabbing at straws here.

Iwaizumi barks out a laugh.

"Does Futakuchi know that?" he asks sarcastically, kicking at Oikawa’s shin under the table. "Or are you still dancing around him like an idiot?"

"Mean, Iwa-chan," Oikawa says as loud as he can get away with in a crowded coffee shop, scooting his chair back to escape any further pain.

Iwaizumi probably would’ve been just as good a soccer player as he is a volleyball player with kicks like that.

Iwaizumi opens his mouth to say something, or probably to call Oikawa an offensive nickname, but his cellphone buzzes on top of the table, cutting his words off.

He reads the text quickly and then stands, Oikawa quickly joining him.

"I have to get back," Iwaizumi says, shrugging his coat on. "Akaashi has work and Hamlet can’t be left alone."

Oikawa grins at Iwaizumi, pokes him in the side before his hand is slapped away.

"You’re such a good mom, Iwa-chan," he teases, grabbing his own coat and dodging Iwaizumi’s second kick to head for the door.

"Stop playing around, Shittykawa," Iwaizumi calls after him, and Oikawa turns while walking, unsure what Iwaizumi is alluding to.

Iwaizumi taps his wrist as if there’s a watch there.

"If you keep procrastinating, Futakuchi’s going to be gone before you can confess your undying love," he teases, and Oikawa sticks his tongue out at him before turning and pushing out into the cold, a shiver shuddering up his spine not just because of the wind, but also because of Iwaizumi’s phrasing.

_Gone._

Oikawa shoves away the image of shimmering, translucent edges, of a smile that had been as sweet as it had been sad, and tugs his coat farther around his shoulders to dispel the chill.

"S’too cold," Kunimi mumbles underneath his scarf as he walks down the sidewalk, sneakers kicking at the ground, the sun slowly setting amongst the city, leaving behind long shadows and the pale shades of twilight.

Suga blows out a breath in agreement next to Kunimi, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, Oikawa walking on his other side.

It’s meant to snow later tonight, the clouds accumulating thick and heavy at the tops of the skyscrapers, a breeze that is sharp and cutting whipping scarves and tangling hair and turning cheeks red.

Oikawa is momentarily envious of Yamaguchi, who is currently staying with Kuroo and Daichi while the three of them meander the streets near where Kunimi had last seen Yahaba, Suga and Kunimi bundled head to toe in coats and scarves and gloves and hats.

Daichi had mentioned something about getting Yamaguchi to help them bake a batch of holiday treats for the café while he was there, and Oikawa can imagine the warmth and the smells, KitKat and Ashes twirling around Yamaguchi’s ankles and Kuroo’s loud laugh filling the apartment.

Suga glances up at him from the corner of his eye as if he knows what Oikawa is thinking about, no doubt smiling under the purple scarf wrapped around his mouth.

Oikawa thinks of Ushijima and of Suga smiling up at the police officer in Iwaizumi and Akaashi’s kitchen, and then of Iwaizumi’s parting words this morning, and sighs, frowning to himself.

The sidewalks are crowded, people bustling home from work or out doing last-minute Christmas shopping, and it’s a struggle to stay together as the three of them push past bags and elbows and people chattering away on cellphones.

The lights strung up around the city are just now starting to flicker on, little fireflies of iridescence, glinting and shimmering, like the night sky has decided to spread down to the streets.

Kunimi can’t seem to stop staring despite his obvious dislike for the cold, his slate-colored eyes bright and child-like as he peers around at everything, the tip of his nose as red as the sucker Oikawa had given him at home, the bag of candy open on the kitchen table, a small thing he had picked up on his way back from coffee with Iwaizumi.

Suga also looks enthralled even though he’s been out more than Kunimi, stepping quickly as if he wants to start running to see it all before they have to head back to Oikawa’s apartment.

Oikawa smiles to himself, gets lost in thoughts of taking Suga around the city, and doesn’t realize that they’ve wandered into Chinatown until he recognizes a street that isn’t too far from Shanghai Asian Manor.

"It was around here," Kunimi is saying softly, Suga reaching for his hand as the two of them glance around, as if Yahaba is going to appear from the crowd or from inside one of the brightly lit restaurants that line this street, their neon signs decorated red and gold.

"We can walk around some more in this area," Oikawa suggests, and Suga nods, follows him down the street with Kunimi in tow, the smells of food wafting through doors when they open, people rushing in and out.

It’s another forty-five minutes of walking up and down streets, of clenching frozen fingers inside pockets and struggling to stay patient, struggling to hide frustration when this search turns out to be like all of the others.

Suga seems to be adjusting to handle the disappointment each time, and it’s painful to watch, to see him plaster his own fake smile onto his face and suggest heading back and starting again fresh tomorrow.

Kunimi is the opposite, his feelings tangible on the surface, quiet, dejected, dragging his feet as they turn back the way they came, his eyes constantly tracing over the faces of the people that pass them by.

Oikawa stops by a restaurant in the middle of one of the streets, ushers Suga and Kunimi inside and tugs his scarf down from his face once they’re in line.

The linoleum floor is sticky under his shoes, the fluorescent lights throwing a pallid shade of yellow over everything, but the air is full of tempting smells, greasy and heavy.

Oikawa quickly orders from the man behind the counter when it’s his turn, waits with his hip edging into one of the tables, listening to the shouts back in the kitchen and the sizzle of food frying, watches a couple laugh over bowls of steaming soup and another boy sitting by himself text rapidly on his cellphone, green conversation bubbles pushing over the screen, until the food appears in two brown paper bags, Kunimi taking one of them.

The three of them are silent once they’re back outside, the contents of Oikawa’s bag warming his hands through his gloves, Suga sticking close to Kunimi’s side.

Oikawa tries to use the time to think, to work further on a plan to find the other three, the first few drops of rain hitting the concrete beneath his feet, dotting the paper bag and making Kunimi shiver.

It reminds him of tears dropping to leave gray shadows on a white floor.

He’s getting ready to cross the street when fingers wrap around his elbow and tug him back, back, back, until he’s stumbling into the shadows between two buildings, the grip desperate and tight.

"What-," Oikawa starts, but it only takes one look at Suga’s face, whose hand is still clinging to Oikawa’s arm, to know that something is wrong.

Kunimi looks as equally confused as Oikawa, tugging his scarf down and opening his mouth to speak, but Suga slaps a hand over his lips, half-drags and half-pushes the two of them farther back into the alleyway, past dumpsters and crumpled trash on the ground, his face pale and his eyes wide, the rain starting to come down harder.

"Suga, what is it?" Oikawa asks, keeps his voice down, shifts the takeout bag to his free elbow and slides his arm out of Suga’s grip to catch his fingers.

"One of them’s here," Suga answers immediately, his own scarf discarded and hanging loosely around his neck, voice hushed, eyes darting around the small space, back towards the busy street, fingers spasming around Oikawa’s.

The blood in Kunimi’s face drains at the words, his dark eyes flashing as the rain plasters his bangs to his face, ice crystals caught in long eyelashes.

"What?" he hisses as Oikawa’s heart gives a sickening jump.

Suga isn’t talking about Yahaba or Shirabu or Kenma, and Oikawa’s eyes snap to the street that is suddenly too close and then towards the other end of the alley, which opens out onto the adjacent road, their only escape route.

"Where?" Oikawa asks quickly, stepping so that he’s in front of the other two.

Suga points towards the opening of the alley, biting his lower lip hard enough that it turns white, the crimson edges of a drop of blood staining his skin.

"I saw her," Suga says, voice weak. "Someone who used to work at the facility. She was across the road. I don’t think she saw us."

"Who was it?" Kunimi asks, nearly dropping his bag of food, blinking water from his eyes, his free hand coming up to dig desperate fingers into Suga’s shoulder.

"I don’t know," Suga says, shaking his head, eyes flitting from Oikawa to Kunimi and back again. "I don’t know, I can’t remember her name, but I know her face."

"Suga-," Kunimi starts, fear turning his voice sharp, and Suga’s face contorts, turns angry for a split second.

"I can’t remember!" he snaps at Kunimi, his voice loud and echoing off of the alley walls, Kunimi recoiling in surprise.

Suga’s irritation is gone as fast as it came, the twist of his mouth smoothing out, his expression turning more tired than anything else, and he runs a trembling hand through his hair.

"I’m sorry," he says, voice soft, scared. "I just- We need to get out of here, now."

Kunimi nods, wipes the shock from his face, turns to Oikawa, probably to ask him which way is best to go, Oikawa’s mind whirling and spinning, thinking of the fastest way to get home.

"We can go that way," Oikawa says, not waiting for Kunimi to speak, letting go of Suga’s hand and pointing in the opposite direction that they came, trying to keep his voice steady, his nerves on edge, pulse beating hard at his throat. "If we get to the bigger street from there, we can get a taxi."

He feels rainwater soaking through his shoes, feels it run cold down his spine, and is grateful for once for the ice that clears his head.

If they can get a taxi, they’ll be back at his apartment in no time, off of the streets and hidden from searching eyes.

They just need to-

"Suga!" Kunimi shouts, right as Oikawa feels someone shove him out of the way, push him backwards, and he stumbles, nearly falling on the icy ground, tripping over the cracked asphalt, the bag dropping from his grip and the food spilling across the wet pavement.

Someone catches him by the shoulders, another thud as the other bag of food hits the ground, noodles and mapo tofu bleeding under Oikawa’s sneakers, but Oikawa barely has time to register that Suga had been the one who’d pushed him and that Kunimi is holding him steady before light explodes through the alley.

Kunimi cries out, Oikawa throwing up his arms to block his face, but not before he realizes that it’s coming from Suga’s hands, the colorless, glittering, flecks of light that Oikawa had seen that first night now creating a shimmering, blinding curtain between them and the street they had been on.

The shards repel each other just like how they had then, beautiful and throwing sparks over Suga’s face, his silver hair glowing, refracting and reflecting the rain, as if he’s swallowed constellations, as if he’s made of them.

"Kunimi!" Suga shouts when Oikawa manages to blink the spots from his vision, straightening up quickly and taking two steps towards Suga, dread twisting his stomach. "Get out of here!"

Through the veil that Suga’s creating, Oikawa can just see a dark shape hurtling towards them, a figure that is running, sprinting, across the slick ground, and he reaches, reaches for Suga, to pull him back, to get him away, his heart slamming into his ribcage, but fingers are wrapping around Oikawa’s wrist, yanking him back instead.

Oikawa whips around, comes face-to-face with a sobbing Kunimi, his tears mixing with the rain pouring down his face, one foot in front of him as if he’s planning to run to Suga’s side, his fingers still wrapped agonizingly tight around Oikawa’s wrist, not letting go even when Oikawa tries to pry out of his grip desperately, cursing when he can’t.

"Kunimi, now!" Suga screams.

Kunimi looks up at Oikawa.

"No," Oikawa breathes, pleads, begs.

"I’m sorry," Kunimi says, feather-soft, the words almost lost in the downpour.

He tightens his grip on Oikawa, steps back into the shadows, and then everything goes dark.

The alley, the spilt food, the rain, the figure, they all disappear, swept away, as if they belong to an alternate universe, as if they didn’t exist in the first place, as if they were all just a part of Oikawa’s nightmare.

And Suga disappears with them, his silhouette the last thing Oikawa sees, wavering, flickering, translucent.

_Gone._


	17. colorless morphine and incandescent comets

Oikawa hits solid ground hard.

The impact radiates up his legs, through his knees, causes his teeth to clack together, and he somehow, miraculously, keeps his balance.

His entire body feels impossibly light for a moment, like he could float up past the building lights all around him, past the streetlights, until he left the glitter of the city behind and could see the stars hidden above it, and he reaches out for the nearest thing to hold onto, his searching hand finding the side of a dumpster.

His fingers curl around the cold metal tight enough to hurt, his breath short in his lungs, until he feels weight descend back onto his shoulders, grounding him, until he can blink his eyes and realize that he’s in another alleyway, this one cleaner and smaller, a chain-link fence creating a dead-end on one side and a familiar street straight ahead.

It’s only then, when the feeling returns to his limbs and his head stops spinning, that Oikawa straightens up, fingers still grasping metal and panic blooming in bright crimson flowers under his ribs, his eyes immediately flitting around, searching for silver hair, for a pair of aureate eyes, for anything.

But there’s only rain-drenched ground and cracked pavement and an achingly empty space next to Kunimi when the other boy stands up a few feet away.

"Koushi," Oikawa says, rasps, his throat closing in on itself, the images of a figure running towards them, of leaving Suga behind, hidden by a veil of light, playing over and over again in his head, and he takes a wobbling step forward, his knees weak.

This can’t be happening, not again. Suga can’t be gone.

But the harsh, bitter truth of reality is running down his face with the drops of rain, is soaking through his coat and pooling in his shoes and stroking cold, cold fingers down his arms.

Oikawa takes another step forward, everything moving as if it’s in slow motion.

"Oikawa," Kunimi says, his eyes red, bloodshot.

"We left," Oikawa says, half to himself, struggling to break out of this daze he seems to be trapped in.

"We need to get inside," Kunimi says, and there’s an edge to his voice, something he’s trying to hide, to push down.

"We left him," Oikawa repeats, a little louder this time because maybe Kunimi didn’t hear him, maybe he doesn’t understand, how can he be so _calm_ , something sharper, more agonizing, welling up in his chest, slicing through the blood-red flowers like knives, leaving the petals in ribbons and then crawling up his throat.

Kunimi is silent but Oikawa can see his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palms, hard enough to draw blood.

Fear.

That’s what’s suffocating Oikawa right now, making each breath a struggle, leaving him light-headed, and Kunimi’s silence only intensifies it, leaves a howling emptiness around Oikawa’s ribs that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

Oikawa straightens his spine, tries to still the shaking of his hands, the trembling that is shuddering up his back and threatening to break him apart.

"We have to go back," Oikawa says, voice low, his eyelashes sticking together.

"We can’t," Kunimi says, as if it’s simple, as if it’s obvious, as if they didn’t just abandon Suga to fight on his own.

"We’re going back," Oikawa grits out through his teeth, the first vines of anger wrapping knots around his ribs. "You have to take me back."

He’s too upset to comprehend fully what Kunimi is able to do, to ask him about it, but he knows it got them away, that it brought them here.

Kunimi pushes rain-soaked hair out of his face, levels Oikawa with an intense stare that makes him look older, exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and pale skin.

"Don’t you get it?" he asks, voice acidic. "Suga doesn’t want us to come back. He wanted us to leave, he created that distraction for us to get away."

Oikawa clenches his hands into fists, mirrors Kunimi’s stance, raises his chin, everything screaming at him to stop wasting time talking, that there’s no time, no room for error.

"So what?" Oikawa snaps. "We’re just supposed to let him sacrifice himself because that’s what he _wants_? We’re just supposed to sit back and hope that he’ll be okay?"

Kunimi doesn’t answer, just watches Oikawa with large, dark eyes and lets the rain thunder down onto his shoulders.

The anger covers Oikawa slowly and then all at once, wrapping tight fingers around his throat and squeezing, squeezing, choking him, the desperation that has already crushed his ribs only serving to make it more vivid.

The combination, the birth of fury from this overwhelming panic, leaves him reckless and thoughtless and with the horrible, ugly urge to lash out at anyone who is stupid enough to be near him, backs him into a wall and leaves him no escape route, destroys the rational part of his brain that is screaming at him to stop it.

Terror holds his hands and turns them cold, and then beckons resentment over to whisper in his ear.

When Kunimi still doesn’t speak, the push and pull of the rain and wind around them the only sound, Oikawa scoffs, feels his mouth twist up into a grin that is as icy as the air around them, and then moves to push past him, to get out of this small space that only seems to be getting smaller by the second, to get somewhere where he can breathe, to get back to the road so he can run, run, run until he finds Suga.

But there are hands on his shoulders, fingers that grip his coat and keep him in place, and Kunimi looks at him with steel in his eyes and a straight mouth.

The fingers tighten around Oikawa’s throat, and his heart is pounding, pounding, pounding, and the fury only grows larger, threatens to swallow him whole like it did last time so long ago, crushes the air from his lungs and leaves him screaming inside his own head.

Something in Oikawa snaps, flashes white-hot behind his eyelids.

He shoves Kunimi away roughly, sends the other boy stumbling back a few steps.

"Get out of the way," Oikawa growls. "You might not feel the need to go back, but I’m not just going to sit around and-"

Kunimi’s eyes flash with the first real emotion Oikawa’s seen since they appeared here in this alleyway that smells faintly of garbage, the fury finally breaking through the glassy exterior that had glinted over his face through the rain, his eyebrows pulling together, teeth bared.

"Don’t you dare act like you care about him more than I do, more than the rest of us do," Kunimi snarls, taking two quick steps forward and shoving Oikawa backwards, a mirror image of a few seconds ago. "You’ve known him for weeks. I’ve known him, lived with him, seen him at his lowest and at his highest, been there for him, for _years_."

Oikawa regains his footing on the icy ground, surprise a sharp slap to the face that leaves him speechless, but Kunimi doesn’t give him time to recover, just pushes him again, advancing like a storm.

"You may think you care for him, maybe you think you love him, but you don’t really know him," Kunimi continues, his voice rising above the clamor of the rain, his shoulders shaking with barely-contained emotion. "If you did, you would know already that staying would’ve ruined everything, would’ve made Suga’s choice a waste, would’ve buried us all. If you did, you would know already that the only reason he didn’t escape, the only reason he’s not here right now, is because of you!"

The last word is yelled, trembling in the air between them and knocking the wind from Oikawa’s lungs.

"What?" Oikawa asks numbly.

Kunimi is glaring at him, contempt edging his already dark eyes in ink, in onyx.

"He stayed behind because of _you_ ," Kunimi spits out. "He created a diversion to protect _your_ identity. If they found out who you were they’d come for the rest of us. If you would’ve just let us go out on our own, if you would’ve stopped interfering so much for once, stopped trying to help, Suga would be standing here instead of you."

Oikawa clenches his fingers into fists at his sides, his brain buzzing, unable to form words, unable to find fault with Kunimi’s words.

"You could’ve grabbed him," Oikawa finally chokes out, his voice broken even to his own ears, squeezing his eyes shut as if that will make all of this go away, as if it’ll make Kunimi’s words hurt less.

"I couldn’t. It would’ve killed us all," Kunimi answers, his voice lower now but no less scathing, and the rational part of Oikawa knows the other boy is only speaking this way because he’s scared, terrified, upset, but the implication behind it all, that this is Oikawa’s fault, still hits hard.

Oikawa doesn’t move, just stands there and lets the rain drum down onto his skin. 

He has no alternative, no words to give, nothing to offer to either Kunimi or himself, and it bites at his stomach, leaves him empty and cold.

The anger leaves as fast as it came, a shadow disappearing into the plum-colored clouds swirling above their heads.

Oikawa opens his eyes to see that Kunimi has walked to the entrance of the alley, pausing there to turn and look over his shoulder at Oikawa.

"If you go back," he says, his voice as lost as his eyes, "you’ll damn us all."

"Are you sure about this?"

Daichi’s eyes are dark, his eyebrows tugged down, KitKat curled up in his arms as Oikawa shoves his shoes on at the front door.

"I can’t sit here any longer," Oikawa answers, trying not to sound too brusque but failing.

Daichi’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t stop Oikawa from pulling on his coat.

The living room and kitchen are empty behind him, Kunimi, Yamaguchi, and Kuroo back in the bedroom.

The alleyway Kunimi had brought them to had turned out to be the one bordering Crow’s Coffee, and when Kuroo had answered the door, Oikawa hadn’t offered a word, had just let Kunimi do the talking.

Oikawa hadn’t watched Yamaguchi’s face when Kunimi had told him the news either, but he couldn’t keep himself from hearing when the other boy started crying, couldn’t ignore the break in Kunimi’s voice as he’d tried to calm Yamaguchi down.

Eventually, Kuroo had led Yamaguchi back to the bedroom to lie down and try to sleep, offering to let them all stay the night if they wanted to. They had already given Oikawa and Kunimi dry clothes, had offered to order dinner.

Kunimi and Yamaguchi were going to sleep here tonight, but Oikawa couldn’t even begin to think about closing his eyes.

The unbearable itch in his fingers and the gaping black hole in his chest had finally become too much, and as soon as Daichi had thrown him the fifth concerned look in the past fifteen minutes, Oikawa had been up and off of the couch, muttering something about going for a walk.

He pulls on his gloves and finally makes eye contact with Daichi, who’s looking at him with a perceptiveness that makes Oikawa uneasy, that triggers an automatic smile.

"I’ll be back before you can miss me too much," Oikawa quips with more cheer than he had thought he would be able to gather in his voice. "Also, tell Kunimi-chan not to worry. I’m only going to get some fresh air and then I’ll come straight home."

"Oikawa-," Daichi starts.

But Oikawa is already gone, the door clicking shut behind him with an air of finality.

The key is still where Oikawa had left it right before break, tucked behind a loose brick that lines up with the sidewalk, and Oikawa bounces it once, twice in his palm, watches the silver catch the streetlight like a shooting star that lands back into his hand, before he pushes the brick back in carefully.

He glances around before he opens the door out of habit, but he’s the only one here near the back door of the university gym, so he slips in quietly, letting the door shut behind him softly and then letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.

For a few quiet moments, Oikawa lets himself sag against the door, lets himself take solace in the familiarity of this place that he’s spent countless hours in since he first came to New York University three years ago, the smell of floor wax and the dark shapes of the bleachers and the storage room doors and the painted lines on the floor all etched into his memory.

He had hated it all at first, back when he was a freshman eager to climb his way back to the top, ready to prove to anyone who needed convincing that he had the potential to be the best, that he was the best, that he would work until his fingers bled and his knee throbbed to destroy anyone who said otherwise.

But the first few weeks had been hell.

Everything had been different. His teammates and the way they played, the way his shoes moved over the floor, even the brand of floor wax and the color of the nets, and Oikawa had been wracked with homesickness, had obsessed over all of these meaningless details and let it affect his own performance.

Oikawa smiles to himself, just a little, thinking about it now, remembers Iwaizumi throwing a volleyball at the back of his head one night after a particularly grueling practice when Oikawa had been short-tempered with everyone and had sat in the locker room with sweat dripping down his neck long after the team had left, remembers Iwaizumi growling at him that he hadn’t followed Oikawa all of the way to America just to watch him sulk and cry over how much he missed how things used to be.

_"This is now,"_ Iwaizumi had said. _"Don’t waste it."_

Oikawa pushes off of the door and walks across the gym floor, not bothering to turn on the lights. He’d made that mistake once, after he had managed to steal the original key from the team captain a few days after Iwaizumi had told him that, after he had made himself a copy of it and slipped the first one back into the captain’s gym bag without anyone noticing.

Well, everyone but Iwaizumi. But he had merely scoffed and rolled his eyes, muttering something about never giving Oikawa a pep talk ever again even while a pleased smile flitted over his mouth, a smile that Oikawa had caught and returned, the cool metal of the copy key warming in his palm.

The storage room doors are unlocked as usual, and Oikawa wastes no time in rolling out one of the practice nets and then grabbing a cart of white and purple-decorated volleyballs.

He shrugs out of his coat and gloves once he’s standing on the serving line, his movements robotic, unthinking, just a series of steps that helps him forget everything that is happening outside of this gym, that he’s managed to trap outside the doors.

The first serve flies way over the other side’s boundary, hits the far wall with a thunk and then bounces away, rolling to a stop in the shadows collected at the corners of the gym.

The second one spins into the net.

The third one follows a similar course as the first one, and Oikawa grits his teeth and throws the fourth one, standing with his arms hanging limply at his sides as it bounces across the court.

He isn’t fooling himself.

Suga’s voice still echoes in his head whenever he picks up a volleyball, the luminescence that had flashed from his fingertips still blinds Oikawa whenever he tosses it, Kunimi’s anger and blame still radiate from the darkness of the gym, surrounding him and sending everything else off-balance.

Helplessness is the silence that drifts down from the ceiling, is the fumble of the ball in Oikawa’s hands when he grabs the fifth one, is the wail of sirens from the street outside.

The fifth ball doesn’t even make it out of Oikawa’s palms.

He crumples to the ground, sits there and hugs it to himself, tries to fight the overwhelming despair that burns at the corners of his eyes and thumps sickeningly in his chest.

Above everything else, Oikawa hates feeling like this, hates it more than he’s ever hated anything else.

Now, as he sits on the hard floor and holds himself together, it brings back memories from high school, leaves him breathless when he remembers the setter that had shown up his sophomore year, when he remembers the innate talent he had brought to the team, so different from Oikawa’s own hard-earned skill, so different from the plays he perfected through blood and sweat and endless hours spent practicing, practicing, practicing, analyzing and running the steps through his head, staying up until the sun crested over the horizon, his laptop flashing with video after video after video of professional tapes.

And yet, even after all of that, he still fell.

He had fallen, helplessness etched into the bruises that covered his arms and his legs like violet flowers, scratched into the callouses on his palms, had tumbled and dropped and plummeted until it ended in the worst pain of his life ripping through his right knee with the weight of everything that had gone wrong, in Iwaizumi crying in the backseat of Oikawa’s mom’s car after he had called her from the school gym at midnight, in the doctor conversing in low tones outside Oikawa’s hospital room with his parents as he lied there and stared at the ceiling unseeingly, his leg wrapped and immobilized, pain medication coursing through his veins and numbing everything, a fact that Oikawa had been unbearably grateful for at the time.

Helplessness, self-loathing, despair, all of it had been numbed, quieted for at least a moment, the never-ending words that pushed and pushed and pushed at Oikawa lost amidst the morphine that ran colorless through his veins.

Colorless, forgotten. So different from the bright, bright blooms of pain, of remembering.

Maybe that’s better.

The subway ride back is quiet.

It’s late, the clock on Oikawa’s phone having inched past midnight a while ago, back before he had locked up the gym again, before he had shoved all of the memories, memories of sea-blue eyes that seemed to look right through him, of bright-red forearms and sweat drenching the hair at the nape of his neck, of teeth digging into a lower lip to keep from screaming because the pain threatened to consume him, of Iwaizumi pushing the numbers on his cellphone with fingers that shook so badly he dropped it twice, of pristine hospital bedsheets and a view that never seemed to change outside the window, into the storage closet with the net and the basket of volleyballs, the five he had taken out stacked back on top as if they had been untouched.

A boy with his headphones in is the only other passenger in his carriage, his dark hair cut in choppy bangs across his forehead, eyebrows furrowed together as he reads something in the paperback cradled in his hand.

Oikawa wonders if the plot is as fucked up as today has been.

The fluorescent lights flicker, the advertisements plastered near the ceiling adding little bits of color to the grimy interior, and they continue to move forward.

Oikawa sits and stares at his own reflection as it appears in the window across from him when the train passes through a tunnel, sees bags under his eyes and the flatness of his mouth.

He looks away.

Kunimi is the one who answers the door, and Oikawa blinks in surprise before he recovers and mumbles out a greeting, slipping inside and toeing his shoes off.

The apartment is dim, the lights over the plants the only illumination, but Oikawa can just make out Kuroo and Daichi sprawled over the living room floor on a makeshift bed, sleeping with both cats curled between them.

"They said you could have the couch," Kunimi says, his voice hushed, barely there, and Oikawa chances a glance at the other as he pulls off his gloves.

Kunimi has been crying, Oikawa can tell immediately, probably just a few minutes ago if the way his eyelashes cling to each other is any hint.

He expects Kunimi to leave, to go back to the bedroom where Yamaguchi must be, but the other boy lingers once Oikawa has finished hanging up his coat and they hover around each other awkwardly for a few seconds.

"There’s dinner in the fridge," Kunimi blurts before Oikawa can say anything, and then he’s turning and walking away, towards the kitchen, and Oikawa follows.

There’s a carryout box in the fridge, some type of burger and cold french fries, and Oikawa borrows the microwave, wincing at the loud hum it emits when he hits the start button and glancing into the living room.

Kuroo and Daichi don’t seem to hear it, although Ashes raises a sleepy head and blinks at him semi-disdainfully before nuzzling back down into Kuroo’s chest.

Oikawa feels a small pang of guilt watching them sleep. Both of them have been nothing but gracious since they found out about Yamaguchi and the others, but all Oikawa had been able to do had been to send them a single-lined text letting them know he was at the gym and that he’d be back soon.

He reminds himself to thank both of them for dinner in the morning.

Kunimi is already sitting at the kitchen table when Oikawa comes over with his food and takes a chair. He keeps his head bowed, staring at the tabletop and drawing invisible lines with his finger, similar to Yamaguchi’s actions the other day, but less haphazard and detailed, more precise, straight lines and perfect edges.

Oikawa tries to eat a fry, biting off the end, but his stomach twists and he drops the other half back onto his plate.

It’s silent for a few breaths, Oikawa pushing his food around and Kunimi refusing to make eye contact, the hum of the fridge the only background noise because the rain had stopped before Oikawa had left for the gym.

Oikawa weighs words on his tongue, tries to think of something to say, something that’ll make at least some of this okay, but his thoughts feel clouded, hazy, drugged, as if he’s still lying in the hospital with his busted knee in a brace.

Kunimi breaks the unbearable silence with a sigh, his hand stilling, raising his head to look at Oikawa.

"I shouldn’t have said what I did earlier," he starts.

Oikawa stays silent, shoves his plate away because there’s no use pretending. He can’t even think about eating without feeling sick.

"I said things that weren’t true," Kunimi continues when Oikawa makes no move to speak. "I know Suga was hiding your identity, but I shouldn’t have blamed you for what happened."

Kunimi’s eyes are sincere, his voice hovering over each word as if he’s practiced this speech in his head a couple of times before Oikawa got back.

"You were scared," Oikawa finally offers, remembering his own anger in the moment, and Kunimi sighs again, shaking his head.

"That didn’t give me the right to tell you that you were the reason for what happened. Suga-"

Kunimi’s voice breaks off, his eyes glittering in the low light in the kitchen, but he continues quickly.

"Suga trusts you, so I trust you. You’ve given us a place to stay, a place to hide, you helped Suga find Yamaguchi, you’ve never given any of us even the smallest reason to doubt your intentions, and I went and said horrible things because I wasn’t strong enough to get all of us out of there in time."

Kunimi’s breath hitches on the last sentence, and Oikawa quickly responds with, "You can’t blame yourself for what happened either."

He remembers something Kunimi had mentioned earlier.

"You said it would have killed us if you had," Oikawa reminds him, and Kunimi nods, his fingers twisted in his lap.

"I can use the shadows to jump from place to place," he mumbles under his breath. "But I have to have seen a place before I can jump to it, and it’s more difficult with more people. If I had tried grabbing Suga while he was in the middle of displaying his own ability, we would’ve died before we could reach our destination."

Kunimi’s head snaps up then, his eyes shining with something Oikawa immediately identifies. Guilt.

"But I should’ve moved us sooner, before all of that happened. When Suga said there was trouble I should’ve grabbed both of you and come here. Why couldn’t I just do that? Why couldn’t I do it back when we all first got out? I remember that I could only practice my ability in certain rooms while we were living there, that the rest of it had somehow been set up to block me from jumping anywhere else, but once we got over the fence and started running, I could’ve grabbed all of them and jumped then. But I didn’t. Do you want to know why?"

Kunimi’s mouth twists into a self-deprecating grin, his fingernails digging into the edge of the table.

"Because I was too afraid to try. I was too fucking scared, I thought I would lose one of them along the way, leave them stranded in a space they would never be able to leave, and instead of that happening, I lost all of them. I let us run and run and run, and then I couldn’t even stay with Yahaba."

Kunimi chuckles bitterly, almost to himself.

Oikawa remains quiet, lets Kunimi talk, knows that he needs this, knows that this is at least something he can do for him.

"I was a late bloomer. Even after everyone else projected and perfected their abilities, I was the only one still struggling to even jump a few feet. Suga was moving onto higher levels of training by the time he turned seven, Yahaba did the same when he was six, and even when I reached nine I was nowhere near where they were. I didn’t care at first, didn’t really expect myself to make any real progress, but then the others became more than just a bunch of other kids that I lived with. They turned into my family, a support system, and I wanted to make all of them proud. So I really worked for once in my life, I really tried, and I got it, I started advancing in bounds and leaps."

Oikawa wants to reach over and loosen Kunimi’s grip because he’s digging in so hard his hand is shaking, his knuckles are white enough to look transparent, but he doesn’t know if the other would want him to, so he keeps still.

"I became one of the best," Kunimi continues. "And look how it helped me. When things actually became real, when I wasn’t just practicing in a training room trying to beat a clock or move more objects or jump farther, when it really mattered, I couldn’t do it. I froze, panicked, could only think of how I used to be. What if I reverted back into that version of myself, what if I couldn’t jump with all of them, what if I failed?"

His voice has been steadily rising higher and higher the entire time he’s been speaking, and it cracks on the last word, Kuroo stirring in the living room and then settling back down.

Oikawa clears his throat then, sits up and levels Kunimi with his gaze.

"It’s not your fault," he says firmly, cuts Kunimi off when the other tries to interrupt him. "If you keep blaming yourself, then you’ll always fail. You’ll always be afraid to try."

Kunimi’s mouth snaps shut, his lower lip wobbling.

"This is now," Oikawa says, his own chest loosening as the words leave his mouth. "Don’t waste it."

Kunimi just looks at him for a few seconds, obsidian eyes warmer than Oikawa’s ever seen them, and then he nods, sets his jaw resolutely, blinks back tears.

And Oikawa lets himself smile, soft and cautious, but real.

The morphine slowly drips from his veins, evaporates and takes the numbness with it, leaves behind blooms of amethyst flowers, and Oikawa holds them close.

Oikawa goes back over to his apartment after he’s finished eating to grab some things for Kunimi and Yamaguchi, making sure Kunimi locks the door behind him before he leaves through the side door he had missed when he had first visited Kuroo and Daichi’s apartment, the one that opens out into the alley from their stairwell.

Everything outside glimmers with rainwater, puddles of it pooling on the sidewalk and leaving behind mirrors of the sky.

His own apartment is dark and empty, and Oikawa shakes away memories of holding a crumpled note in his hand, the same silence settling over everything, a pair of borrowed clothes folded and sitting on an already-made guest bed.

He has to be there for Kunimi and Yamaguchi, has to help them find the others, find Suga.

A thought strikes Oikawa as he stands there in his darkened living room, and he’s over at his window in seconds, hand reaching out to unlock it, some kind of solace, a small thing that brings him at least a little bit of stability.

But he pauses before his fingers can brush against the lock, stares down at the window and stops.

It’s already unlocked, and Oikawa remembers opening the window before he had left with Suga and Kunimi earlier, remembers letting some fresh air run through the apartment before shutting it, and he smiles wryly to himself.

Some habits never changed.

With that thought in mind, Oikawa turns to head back towards his bedroom, running through a list of things he had wanted to bring back to Kuroo and Daichi’s place. He’s sure they’re only going to stay for tonight, but if Yamaguchi and Kunimi feel more safe over there with more people, and if Kuroo and Daichi don’t mind, they might end up staying a little longer.

Suga’s absence hits him then, there in the dark hallway, the way it has been ever since this afternoon, an ache he can’t pinpoint, something missing, something he wants back so desperately it leaves him breathless, and he pauses, tries to pull himself back together, tries not to think of watching movies, curled close to each other on the couch, or of laughing in the kitchen while they cooked dinner, or of Suga shoving him out of the way and protecting him.

Imagining doing all of this without him is terrifying, a loss that Oikawa has to ignore before it wrecks him.

Continuing down the hallway feels like what walking had been like in the months after his surgery. Difficult, complicated, agonizing, but Oikawa keeps going, thinks of Suga’s smile and steels his backbone, protects the stars painted along the skin over his spine and the line of violet wrapped around his ribs.

He convinces himself that he’ll find Suga, that Suga is strong enough to fight for himself, that he’ll see him again.

The only thing Oikawa’s not expecting is for it to be so soon.

The person that slams into him when he turns the corner into his bedroom is trembling and cold, arms wrapping around his middle and eyes glittering with a million tears looking up at his face.

It’s not possible, shouldn’t be possible, but Oikawa can find no lies, no tricks, no illusions, can’t speak for several, heart-rending seconds, can only steady himself from falling and stare and stare and stare, Suga’s name finally leaving his mouth in a sharp burst of sound, his heart slamming so hard into his ribs he’s sure they crack.

"Oikawa," Suga is sobbing, fingers gripping the back of his coat so hard Oikawa hears a few threads snap, the fabric stretching. "Oikawa, I thought- I came back and there was no one here, I thought- Where’s Kunimi, Yamaguchi? Where are they, are they okay? Are you okay?"

Suga’s voice is as frantic as his hands, his palms sliding from Oikawa’s back to his shoulders to his neck, fingers splayed over his collarbones.

When Oikawa doesn’t answer immediately, Suga speaks louder, the same questions spilling from his lips and arcing like comets sparking across the sky and finally, finally, breaking through Oikawa’s stunned silence.

"They’re fine, they’re over at Daichi and Kuroo’s, they’re fine, it’s okay, they’re okay," Oikawa manages to rasp out, the first few tears sliding down his face, Suga’s cheeks flushed and bright, his eyes squeezing shut at Oikawa’s words, louder sobs tearing from his throat, his entire frame slumping as if he had been being held up by strings that someone had finally cut.

The need to touch, to feel, is suddenly too much for Oikawa to bear, and his hands immediately find Suga’s face, fingers brushing the tears from his cheeks with trembling care, trying to assure himself over and over again that yes, this is real, he’s here, somehow, impossibly, miraculously here, and Oikawa runs firmer hands down both sides of Suga’s neck, over his shoulders, down his arms, his breath ragged in his chest, relief making his knees so weak he slides to the ground, bringing Suga with him so that they’re sitting with Oikawa’s back to the wall, Suga cradled to him.

"You- how did you- Suga, God, you’re okay, thank God, you’re okay."

Oikawa can’t keep himself from rambling, can’t keep himself from crying with Suga, everything around them shrinking down to just Suga, here, breaking down against him, his face buried in the front of Oikawa’s shirt, both of them shaking, Suga’s fingertips clinging to Oikawa’s shirt collar, and he shifts, scrambles to climb fully into Oikawa’s lap, and Oikawa closes his eyes, can’t stop talking, his words coming in short, sharp gasps, mumbled into the crown of Suga’s head, his own hands painting bruises into Suga’s back from how hard he’s holding him, and he doesn’t know how he could ever think feeling nothing, forgetting, could be better than this, than feeling no matter how much it hurts.

Eventually Suga stops trembling, and a short time after, so does Oikawa, their tears drying, heartbeats slowing from trying to beat out of their chests to something softer, gentler.

There are a million questions Oikawa wants to ask, but there’s something else at the forefront of his mind that he refuses to ignore this time.

With careful, still slightly shaking fingers, Oikawa tilts Suga’s face up, takes in red-rimmed eyes and a cut along Suga’s lower lip and the smudged shape of his beauty mark that Oikawa wants to press his lips to millions of times and then some.

Kunimi’s words from earlier come back to him, echo in his head and force the words from his lips.

"I want to know you, Koushi," he says into the rain-soaked quiet, the noises outside his bedroom windows muffled and gentle, the city caught in a glittering blanket of translucent drops that run down windows and darken pavement and leave the streets enveloped in the tender brush of a breeze.

Suga searches his face, lets a few more tears drip down his cheeks, and then nods.

Oikawa leans forward, wipes the tears from his cheeks with his fingers, and then pushes Suga’s hair back from his forehead.

And then he kisses him.


	18. the bitter bloom of blood and stardust

Salt and blood.

Those are the first two things that register in Oikawa’s mind in the first few seconds, the sharp taste of tears and the faint bitter bloom of blood from the cut on Suga’s lower lip.

The kiss isn’t elegant or neat, more like an awkward bump of noses because Oikawa moves too fast, and Oikawa’s fingers are frozen on the curve of Suga’s jaw because his mind short-circuits as soon as their mouths meet.

But the nerves only last for a breath, enough time for Suga to relax against him, and then everything Oikawa should be feeling comes rushing in like the hush of the rain against the window, the euphoria and the nerve-shattering relief that Suga is here, the blooming warmth in his chest that’s been there for weeks now, the sudden overwhelming, burning need to press his lips to every inch of Suga’s skin.

As if in slow motion, Oikawa slants his head to deepen the kiss, coaxes Suga’s mouth open with a soft nip to his lower lip and a lick to the seam of his lips and it’s like a switch is flipped, the hesitation to show the other what they feel, what Oikawa’s felt for weeks now, disappearing like the impression of light that’s left after the flash of a shooting star, both of them shifting to get closer, gasps intermingling in the quiet of the bedroom.

Oikawa can’t think straight, not over the pleasant buzz in his mind or the thundering of his heart against his ribcage, can’t focus on anything but the weight of Suga in his lap and the soft, wet heat of his mouth and the sweet, low sounds Oikawa draws from parted lips when he runs his hands down Suga’s back to draw him closer, counting the knobs of his spine and trying desperately not to lose his mind completely.

Everything else fades away, disappears, the lull of rain against the windows, the rumble of nighttime traffic on the street below, the faint ticking of the old-fashioned, earl-gray-colored clock that Oikawa’s mother had given him before he’d left for university that sits amongst his plants on the windowsill.

All of it narrows down to Suga raising trembling, pale fingers to cup Oikawa’s face, to the pressure of his thighs around Oikawa’s hips when he moves closer, to the push and pull of the kiss, the two of them moving together, Oikawa’s pulse thrumming in his veins, trying to pour everything into it so Suga knows exactly what he’s feeling.

They part slowly, barely moving away from each other, noses brushing, hair getting tangled in eyelashes, when the need to breathe becomes too much, after what could’ve been seconds, minutes, hours, but that is still all too short for Oikawa.

"I want to know you too," is the first thing that Suga whispers into the quiet, his voice hoarse from crying, the words twining themselves around Oikawa’s ribs and inking their meaning along the curve of his spine.

Suga’s eyes are wide, bright in the soft light that filters through Oikawa’s curtains, beautiful and glimmering with a million stars and Oikawa can do nothing but exhale shakily and lean back in again, catch his mouth gently, tenderly, trying to memorize the taste and the feel of the boy in his arms, trying to collect every gasp and shudder that he incites.

Suga is stunning, is moonlit hair and flushed cheeks and the tangle of fingers in Oikawa’s hair, stumbles into a beautiful, shivering mess when Oikawa drops open-mouthed kisses down the length of his throat, when he can’t stop himself from mouthing gently at the skin right next to a mole that lingers on the wing of a collarbone, covering it with an amethyst flower, the fleeting thought he had imagined that night in Iwaizumi and Akaashi’s kitchen now reality.

But nothing could have prepared Oikawa for this, nothing he ever imagined could ever come close to this, right now, the way Suga tugs his face back up and kisses him again, matching Oikawa’s fervor, his heart shivering at the hollow of his throat, couldn’t ever compare to the intoxicating sensation of Oikawa sliding his fingers under the back of Suga’s shirt, meeting hot, smooth skin that arches into his touch, could never replicate the thud his heart gives when he whispers Suga’s name into his hair, inhaling the scent of shampoo and cinnamon and black tea that still lingers even through the light smell of rain on Suga’s half-drenched clothes, when Suga kisses the corner of his mouth in reply.

It’s only when Oikawa’s palms slide over Suga’s sides, thumbs catching on the edges of his ribcage, when the two of them are caught in another kiss that is more desperate than controlled, when Oikawa licks into his mouth and Suga’s fingertips edge under the hem of Kuroo’s borrowed t-shirt to barely brush against the soft skin of Oikawa’s stomach, the muscles there contracting immediately at the touch, that Suga pulls away a breath later, pupils blown wide in the dark, his hair an ashen mess around his face, breathing raggedly against Oikawa’s cheek, breath hot and wet.

"We should go see Yamaguchi and Kunimi," he half-whispers into the crook of Oikawa’s neck and Oikawa knows they should, knows he’s being selfish when he thinks about the two of them staying here instead, so he leaves a few more butterfly kisses along the side of Suga’s throat, lingering, and then pulls away, brushing Suga’s hair back.

Suga smiles at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, the edges of it stained with lemon yellow, and Oikawa almost kisses him again but doesn’t, taking a deep breath instead and letting Suga disentangle himself and stand up.

"I’ll explain everything once we’re with everyone else," Suga tells him, fingers flitting over the back of Oikawa’s hand until their fingers are interlaced, and Oikawa can’t help but grin down at him at the gesture until Suga is blushing and glancing away, his shirt wrinkled and the beauty mark under his eye catching a slant of light coming in through the windows.

Oikawa leans down and presses his lips to it reverently, Suga sputtering even though they had had their tongues in each other’s mouths a few moments before, and then narrows his eyes up at Oikawa, flushing hard enough for it to spread down to his collarbones.

"Satisfied?" he asks, tone teasing under the embarrassment, his mouth quirking up at the side.

"Very," Oikawa answers, a violet thread wrapped around his wrist.

Kuroo and Daichi really don’t stand a chance, being sprawled out across the living room floor, when Kunimi and Yamaguchi, who are both up now and sitting at the kitchen table, raise their heads to see Suga walking in the front door.

Oikawa slips the copy key Kunimi had given him earlier, a gift from Daichi, back into his pants pocket and watches the two of them practically tackle Suga backwards into the living room, the three of them losing their footing on the blankets spread over the ground and crashing into a huge pile on top of the two sleeping figures.

Kuroo shouts out, sitting straight up and cracking his forehead against Yamaguchi’s, who yelps in surprise and slaps a hand to the spot, face screwed up in pain, and Daichi wakes a split second later, wheezing loudly in discomfort because Oikawa’s pretty sure that’s Kunimi’s knee digging into his stomach, but thankfully neither of the cats are still around, the glint of eyes from the cat beds alerting Oikawa as to where they actually are.

Suga looks like the wind’s been knocked from his lungs, half on top of Kuroo and half on top of Daichi with Yamaguchi and Kunimi on his stomach, but he’s smiling, trying to hug both of them at the same time, trying to reassure them that he’s fine, that he’s not hurt even as endless questions pour from their mouths, their voices high with relief and joy and worry.

"Glad that you’re back, Sugawara," Kuroo says at some point, his voice still scratchy with sleep, staring up at the ceiling in a daze, "but I don’t think I have a head anymore."

Daichi half-mumbles something in agreement, his voice strained, groaning afterwards.

And then Oikawa can’t help but laugh, the entire situation so ridiculous that once he starts laughing he can’t stop, his shoulders curving inwards as he supports his weight against the front door, the bag of clothes and other necessities that he had grabbed from his apartment hitting the floor by his feet.

A split second later, Yamaguchi joins in, his laugh clear and bubbling, Kunimi hiding a grin behind a hand, Suga following soon after even though he still sounds like he can’t breathe.

That only makes Oikawa laugh harder, and then all four of them are in hysterics, KitKat meowing disdainfully from her bed, Ashes peeking out in curiosity.

Daichi stops trying to wriggle out from under Suga and Kunimi and flops back onto the floor, sighing.

"I guess we’re all not going back to bed, are we?" he says, not to anyone in particular.

The only reply he gets, however, is more laughter.

"Stop eating all of those," Kuroo chides half-heartedly, swatting at Yamaguchi’s hand with the spatula he’s using to flip the bacon on the stove, grease dripping from the tip and staining the floor.

Daichi huffs out a laugh, slips Yamaguchi one more piece behind Kuroo’s back and then resumes mixing the pancake batter, his pajamas decorated here and there with powdery, white flour.

When he turns around, Oikawa sees that, somehow, some of it has even gotten on his nose.

Suga is nursing a cup of oolong tea with one hand beside him at the kitchen table, changed into a pair of dry clothes from Oikawa’s apartment, but the fingers of his free hand are laced discreetly with Oikawa’s in Oikawa’s lap, and Oikawa keeps getting distracted by the soothing motion of Suga running his thumb over his knuckles.

Or he would be if Kunimi weren’t sitting across from them with his eyes solely focused on Oikawa, a burning stare that gives Oikawa the weird feeling that he knows everything and that leaves him fidgeting in his chair.

Oikawa sighs inwardly in relief when Kuroo plops a huge pile of bacon and fried eggs in the center of the table, breaking Kunimi’s intense, interrogating expression, Yamaguchi sliding in next to Suga and staring at it all with rapt attention.

"Pancakes are almost done and then we can talk," Daichi calls over his shoulder, spooning a huge ladle of sticky batter onto a skillet and smoothing it out.

Oikawa wonders vaguely if all the important talks they’ll have as a group will be like this, Daichi and Kuroo cooking in the kitchen, the rest of them crowded around the table, KitKat and Ashes twirling around everyone’s ankles or hopping up into Yamaguchi’s lap to receive scratches behind the ear.

"Breakfast at three in the morning," Kuroo mumbles, his hair even messier than usual, strands of the unruly black locks sticking up at every possible angle. "I can’t say I’ve never done it before, but all of the other times at least involved alcohol."

"Tetsurou isn’t a morning person," Daichi says, flipping the first pancake. "If you couldn’t tell already," he adds.

"Shhh," Kuroo whispers dramatically, shuffling over to Daichi’s side and leaning heavily on his shoulder, letting his head loll to the side, "don’t tell them all of my weaknesses, Sawamura."

He almost subconsciously wipes the smudge of flour across the bridge of Daichi’s nose away with the edge of his shirt sleeve, a stupid grin on his face.

Suga smirks into his tea as a faint, pink blush dusts Daichi’s face, visible even from across the kitchen, before he shoves Kuroo away, mumbling something about burning the pancakes.

Minutes later, all of them are squeezed into the chairs, Yamaguchi practically sitting in Kunimi’s lap to conserve space, pancakes sitting in a tall, fluffy pile amongst the other food, the delicate scents of vanilla and some other spice Oikawa can’t identify twining through the air and clearing some of the dark circles from under everyone’s eyes.

Suga squeezes Oikawa’s hand before he starts talking, everyone waiting to eat, too intent on hearing about what had happened after Oikawa and Kunimi had escaped, and Oikawa squeezes back in a way that he hopes is reassuring, the fingers of his other hand digging into his thigh in anticipation, nerves on edge, his heartbeat irregular at his throat.

He’s expecting Suga to describe fighting the person off, or running from them. He’s expecting details, a face, a name, some new information they can use to avoid being found again, or to help them find the others, or to even figure out at least some of the answers behind the memory loss.

But the first words out of Suga’s mouth leave everyone speechless, leave them bewildered, Oikawa’s mind spinning with questions, with possible answers.

"It wasn’t a person."

Kunimi frowns, his forehead furrowing, Yamaguchi’s mouth parting as if he’s going to speak, blinking in surprise.

It’s obvious by their reactions that they’re just as lost as Oikawa and Kuroo and Daichi, and the realization only makes Oikawa feel more on edge.

He had clearly seen a person in the alley, had watched them run towards them.

"It was an illusion," Suga continues before anyone can speak, before anyone can start bombarding him with questions, his fingers cold in Oikawa’s hand. "It ran right up to me and disappeared, vanished into the air. I didn’t recognize the face, but it looked like a boy our age, dark hair, brown eyes. He was gone before I could do anything. I walked around the city for a while, a few hours, to make sure no one was following me, and then I went back to the alley to see if anyone had shown up there, but it was empty. I had to make sure you all were okay, so that's when I found my way back to the apartment. I thought-"

Suga breaks off, doesn’t finish his sentence, staring down into his lap, but Oikawa knows what he’s thinking and readjusts his hold on his hand, running his thumb over the sharp edge of his wrist.

"How do you know it was an illusion?" Kunimi asks first, breaking the silence that follows Suga’s words, his fingers tapping an uneasy rhythm on the tabletop.

Yamaguchi watches Suga carefully, his emerald eyes large, hanging onto every detail that passes Suga’s lips.

Suga hesitates, eyelashes fluttering before he looks back up at all of them, voice soft when he answers, as if that’ll make the words mean less.

"He didn’t have a soul."

If the kitchen had been silent before, it’s nothing to how quiet it is now.

Kuroo looks stunned, Daichi is having a hard time keeping his mouth closed, and Oikawa’s heart has leaped into his throat, making it hard to swallow.

Kunimi and Yamaguchi look a little startled, but not nearly as flustered as everyone else, and Suga sighs, lets go of his tea to brush his hair back from his eyes.

"I can form stars," he starts, looking a little flustered himself, saying it out loud.

Oikawa turns to him, remembers the light he had created from his fingertips, the shards of what looked like colorless, glittering glass that had fallen to his living room floor and disappeared, and holds his breath.

This is the first time Suga’s discussed his ability openly, the first time he’s talked about what he can do.

The fact that he’s willing to reveal it here, to Kuroo and Daichi, only highlights how desperate the situation is.

"I can use them for protection, as a weapon, but I can also see the elements that make up stars wherever they are in the world, can see the stars in the sky a lot clearer, a lot brighter, than everyone else."

"So you can see souls?" Kuroo blurts, his dark eyebrows raised, no signs of sleep remaining, his eyes bright and alert as he grapples with all of the new information, Daichi sitting up straighter beside him.

Suga smiles softly, his hand warmer in Oikawa’s palm, as if just thinking about it brings some of the heat of the stars to his skin, as if stardust and constellations linger in his veins and paint the inside of his stomach in streaks of silver, in splashes of gold, in glittering flecks of burning, brilliant stars.

Oikawa is speechless, his heart swelling in his chest until he can’t breathe, until he can do nothing but hold onto Suga’s hand tighter and listen, wonder lighting up his eyes.

"Stardust is everywhere," Suga explains, his eyes warm, loving, his discomfort about talking about his ability slowly fading away. "It falls from the sky every time a star ends in space, every time it explodes, drifts down here to Earth over time and settles into everything, the grass, the trees, all of us. We are made of stardust. It’s in our blood, under our skin, we breathe it in everyday."

By now the food has gone cold, but no one cares.

"But the first star that you come into contact with, the first amount of stardust that you inhale after you’re born, that’s what makes up your soul. The boy in the alley didn’t have that, didn’t have anything. He was just a shadow," Suga finishes, wrapping the fingers of his free hand back around his mug, his voice dark with worry. 

"I can only see other people’s souls if I’m trying to, if I’m looking for them, when I’m using my ability," he adds a second later, amusement coloring his voice, lightening the tense atmosphere a little, when Kuroo slaps a hand over his heart, peering down at his shirt in awe as if he’s going to see something there besides a random streak of flour.

While everyone else laughs a little at Kuroo, Oikawa bites his lower lip, waits for Suga to tilt his head to face him, his honey-gold eyes settling on Oikawa’s gently.

"I didn’t look at yours that night," he says, his voice low enough so that only Oikawa hears. "I won’t ever, unless you want me to."

The idea of Suga seeing his soul that first night they had met, of anyone peering into him and seeing his deepest fears, his deepest desires, leaves Oikawa feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

But he feels his chest loosen at the words, knows that Suga had already known what he was thinking the moment he had thought it, and feels a new wave of affection rush through his veins, his fingers aching to pull Suga close no matter how many people are watching.

He doesn’t, just brushes gentle fingers over the curve of Suga’s wrist and nods, giving him a grateful smile.

_"Someday,"_ Oikawa thinks.

Someday, he’ll ask him to.

The wind is cold, sharp and biting, but the boy sitting on the edge of what he’s learned is called the Tiffany and Co. Foundation Overlook in the High Line barely notices, too overcome by the words of the person standing on the street below him.

"You found him? Where is he?" he asks, barely breathing between the questions, his voice aching with hope and relief, the lights of the city glinting off of the glass walls that form a sort of barrier around the overlook, the trees that are planted behind him in the garden that seems to stretch forever onwards swaying in the wind.

He likes to come here, to this concrete stretch that the people of this city have planted an entire garden in, flowers and trees amongst towering skyscrapers and glass and asphalt, after a day that has been particularly stressful, after he’s looked and looked and still hasn’t found anyone, but now he can’t get down to the street and the figure fast enough, his sneakers carrying him to the black iron staircase and pounding against the steps as he flies down them.

The street is grimy, covered in wayward pieces of trash, smells like gasoline, endless cars rushing past in a blur of colors and sound, but the boy only grabs the other person’s hand, nails digging into their skin desperately, their matching ink and gold wristbands clicking together, one question on his lips.

"Where’s Suga?"


	19. glittering antimatter and the weight of words

Oikawa tries to untangle the knot his tongue seems to have suddenly gotten stuck in, tries to word his question gracefully despite the irregular itch of his pulse at the base of his throat and the uncomfortable dampness of his palms.

He quickly and surreptitiously wipes them off on his sweatpants, clears his throat, and then manages to ask Suga if he wants to sleep in his room without his voice breaking too much.

The four of them are back in Oikawa’s apartment, everyone full with breakfast and ready to fall back into bed, an oxymoron of sorts, after Yamaguchi had pointed out that Kuroo and Daichi probably wanted their bed back despite their protests to let everyone stay.

They had left soon after that, Daichi packing the extra food for them to take back with them, and Kunimi and Yamaguchi had gone straight to bed, Yamaguchi dragging Kunimi down the hall while the other glared daggers at Oikawa as he hesitated in the living room, slowly realizing that the guest bed would be a little crowded now that Yamaguchi had arrived.

Which brings them to now, Suga blinking up at him, the tips of his ears red.

"I didn’t mean-," Oikawa splutters, feeling unnaturally embarrassed and self-conscious, trying to take back his words. "I just thought- I can sleep on the couch again."

After everything they’ve been through and he’s still as nervous as a high schooler confessing a crush.

He feels like an idiot, his heart sinking because he must’ve sounded like one just now, but Suga is shaking his head quickly, says, "I don’t mind," and Oikawa’s breath catches in his throat.

Oikawa’s room is dark, but he doesn’t bother turning on the lights since both of them are already dressed for bed, the only thing left to do being to slip under the covers.

It’s impractical how hard his heart is beating against his ribcage as he lies down, Suga just a shadowy form on the other side of the bed until he climbs in as well, the mattress dipping before he settles.

They exchange quiet goodnight’s, Suga’s eyes glimmering in the pale light coming through Oikawa’s curtains, almost like he’s hesitating to say something more, still sitting up, and Oikawa’s breath is stuck in his throat, a flush he hopes Suga can’t see slowly spreading down his neck, waiting with a thundering heart.

But Suga only lingers there a second longer before he moves to lie down and Oikawa swallows his disappointment.

For a few quiet seconds, he tries to focus on the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, counting them in his head in an attempt to ignore the energy that hums over his skin distractingly, the overwhelming, hyperactive awareness he has of the fact that Suga is only a few inches away, in his bed, close enough that all Oikawa would have to do would be to edge his hand over the barest bit to brush their fingers together.

He should be contemplating the information from earlier, should be mulling over what had happened to Suga in the alley and trying to figure out which angle the enemy is trying to come from.

They had discussed it more, back at Kuroo and Daichi’s, everyone clamoring to get their own opinions and thoughts in, questions flying and answers being half-spoken or mumbled, no one one-hundred percent sure of anything.

It had been Suga’s guess that everyone had finally settled on, that made the most sense.

"The teachers are probably using other kids from other facilities to find us," he had said quietly, pushing his food around on his plate half-heartedly, the tines of his fork scraping across porcelain. "That’s the only thing I can think of. Someone has the ability to create a type of illusion of themselves, something they can use to cover twice as much ground. The only thing I can’t figure out is why they let me go."

"You weren’t followed," Kunimi had added, "or they would’ve been here by now. So that’s one reason that doesn’t work, using you to find the rest of us."

"They could have been trying to follow me," Suga had pointed out a beat later. "I walked around for hours, remember? I might’ve just shaken them off."

"Maybe they were helping you," Kuroo had said, not sounding like he really meant it, but everyone had fallen silent after that, all of them lost in their own thoughts.

It doesn’t help that Suga and the others can’t remember anyone with that particular talent at their facility. They might’ve never even have met the boy, but even that’s a question no one can answer, given the gut-wrenching fact that none of them can even remember the names of their mentors, their teachers, the people who raised them.

Oikawa should be thinking about all of this as he lies here, but it’s like trying to light a match underwater.

He’s tired, his body sinking into the mattress easily, comfortably, despite his rapid heartbeat, and Oikawa realizes belatedly that he hasn’t slept at all tonight.

The sun will be cresting the horizon soon, raising gold-tipped fingers to brush over eyelids and knuckles, to paint the sky aquamarine and iris.

But it’s useless trying to fool himself, Oikawa thinks wryly.

His lack of focus isn’t because he’s sleep-deprived.

It’s because, here, in the dark, he can hear every breath Suga takes, imagines he can feel the heat radiating off of the other, brushing against his bare arm, is so painfully aware of every single movement that Suga makes that Oikawa is sure he’ll eventually go crazy if he doesn’t say anything.

He’s not sure why he’s so hesitant, so reluctant- no, not reluctant. Oikawa isn’t reluctant about any of this. He’s aching to hear Suga’s voice, to reach over and touch him, to kiss him again, especially now that they’re finally alone.

He’s not sure why he’s so _nervous_.

His heart can’t seem to stay still in his chest, his fingers are ice-cold and probably clammy, and every time Suga shifts even the barest bit, Oikawa wants to roll off his side of the bed and onto the floor just to knock some sense into himself.

At the same time he can’t help but remember the kiss from earlier, the shaky exhales of Suga’s breath against his lips, the softness of his skin, his weight against Oikawa’s body and the strength of his legs and the wet heat of his mouth.

The memories surface strongly, made only more vivid by the quiet darkness that pushes down on both of them, that surrounds them with soft bedcovers and the hum of the city outside the windows and the play of the streetlights against the walls.

Oikawa swallows hard, shifts a little to glance over at Suga’s face, only sees a flash of silver hair, the slope of his nose, before he looks away again.

_"This is ridiculous, you’re being stupid,"_ he berates himself in his head. _"You kissed him earlier and now you can’t even speak?"_

Oikawa frowns in the dark, takes a deep inward breath, his features scrunching up with determination.

He can do this, he can open his mouth and ask Suga if he’s still awake, and then-

Oikawa pauses.

Oikawa isn’t really sure what he had been planning on saying next.

They hadn’t really talked about the kiss after it had happened, hadn’t said what it meant.

Oikawa already knows he likes Suga, even as the thought makes his ears burn, an attraction that has grown and strengthened over the weeks, and Suga had seemed to reciprocate those same feelings earlier.

_"I want to know you too."_

But what if Suga had just been caught up in the moment? What if the fear had led him to follow Oikawa’s lead, desperate for human contact?

Are they boyfriends?

Should Oikawa ask Suga to be his boyfriend?

Does Suga know what boyfriend means?

Oikawa winces inwardly when he imagines Suga punching him for that question. He’s sure Suga knows what the term implies, sure that it had had to come up sometime, even in a facility that raised humans with inhuman talents.

Maybe Oikawa will bring it up in the morning, when the both of them are less tired.

Suga’s probably already asleep anyways, probably exhausted from everything, and-

"I can feel you thinking," Suga says, his voice low in the quiet, hesitant and amused at the same time.

Oikawa’s heart stutters, his legs jerking embarrassingly in surprise, but he grabs the opportunity without a second thought, rolling over onto his side even though his pulse is beating twice as hard now.

Letting his eyes adjust to the dark, Oikawa traces them over Suga’s profile, tries to swallow past the dryness of his throat when Suga turns his head to face him, his eyes wide open and absolutely beautiful and so, so close.

Earlier had been so easy, had been so simple and effortless, driven by heart-wrenching alarm and ecstatic relief that had pushed Oikawa’s desires over everything else, that had left no room for anything but the truth.

But now Oikawa can’t even form words, can’t sort through everything that’s going on in his head.

So he stops trying.

Instead he edges closer without saying anything, until his cheek is resting on Suga’s pillow, until he can see the details of his face outlined and emphasized, sketched by streetlight and the soft blue glow of sunrise, the shadow of the dip in his upper lip, the long curve of his eyelashes, a tendril of hair that’s tucked behind his ear like a curl of argent smoke.

Oikawa finds Suga gorgeous, even here in the dim half-light of his bedroom, even when Oikawa can’t see his face clearly but can still make out the dark shadows under the other’s eyes, can see the weary twist to his mouth.

Suga’s sharp inhale when Oikawa edges forward would be inaudible if not for their close proximity to each other, but Oikawa catches it, feels it echo in his throat, and Suga doesn’t make any gesture to move away, doesn’t say anything, just lets his lips part slightly, keeps his eyes on Oikawa’s.

Oikawa lets his eyes fall to the movement of Suga’s throat when he swallows, his gaze heavy and lingering on the fragile edges of his collarbones, on the smudge of a bruise that Oikawa remembers biting into soft skin, the edges plum-colored and blurry, and his stomach swoops and then settles, his eyes flickering back up to Suga’s face.

Pushing everything else to the back of his mind, everything but the fact that Suga isn’t going anywhere, isn’t doing anything but waiting and watching, Oikawa leans the rest of the way in, captivated by the way Suga’s eyes flutter shut in the split second before he kisses him, the gold covered by flickering black lashes.

It’s slower this time, less frantic than before, the fabric of the pillowcase whispering under Oikawa’s cheek when he moves, a warm bump of mouths, barely moving, the scent of Oikawa’s shampoo in Suga’s hair tickling at his nose.

The nerves twisting in his stomach turn into nothing as soon as Oikawa feels Suga kiss back, the warm fingers of one hand hovering uncertainly somewhere near the crook of Oikawa’s elbow, barely there.

Oikawa trails gentle fingers up the curve of Suga’s arm until he reaches his shoulder, his palm placed there as if for balance as he presses closer, inhaling through his nose and slowly, slowly moving his lips against Suga’s in a rhythm that the other boy tries to match.

He needs the support, Oikawa thinks, as they both pull back after a couple moments, staring at each other quietly, because his head is already spinning dangerously from just that much, just from the simple nearness of Suga, his breath intermingling with Oikawa’s and his fingers finally curling into the edge of Oikawa’s shirt sleeve, that tiny action enough to send Oikawa’s heart into a joyous leap.

"Do you want to be boyfriends?" he asks, keeping his voice barely above a whisper, before he can swallow the words back down, before his nerves can return.

It’s not the way he had been intending to ask Suga, definitely not the way he’s asked other people in the past, but Oikawa’s satisfied underneath the embarrassment that crawls up his throat, glad that he doesn’t feel inclined to coat the question in sugar or ask it in any other way.

He can be straightforward with Suga, can tell him what he’s really thinking, and it makes all of this feel that much more real, more tangible.

That doesn’t mean that Oikawa isn’t holding his breath after he asks.

Suga’s ashen eyebrows furrow, his face registering confusion, and _"Okay,"_ Oikawa thinks, _"he doesn’t know what boyfriend means after all. It’s better than outright rejection."_

He quickly wracks his brain, tries to think of the easiest way to describe the term, Suga’s bewilderment doing nothing to diminish the cold sweat that has broken out across the back of his neck.

Too late does Oikawa notice the playful quirk to Suga’s frown, the glint in his eyes when he rolls over onto his side to face Oikawa fully, his fingers still clinging to Oikawa’s shirt.

"Is that the same thing as a boy toy?"

Oikawa’s mouth drops open at Suga’s words, his thoughts screeching to a violent halt.

But before he can get splutter out a definitive and definite no, Suga lets a laugh escape, a single huff of air that he tries to hold back, and the oxygen rushes back into Oikawa’s lungs when he realizes what’s happening.

"Don’t _do_ that," Oikawa says, his voice strangled even to his own ears.

And then he automatically and completely forgets about whatever he had been flustered about in the first place because Suga laughs once more, even lighter than the last, almost more of a breath than anything, and then throws him a look from under his eyelashes that Oikawa can’t read before he leans forward and kisses him, hard and deep and insistent, Oikawa’s ability to think completely disappearing.

It’s not as sweet as the one from a few minutes earlier, is tinged lilac with what Oikawa thinks is desperation, and he wants to ask Suga why, but the question drowns in his throat, is replaced with Suga pressing closer, their chests brushing, and Suga’s fingers lacing through his hair insistently, need shivering through the sigh he breathes against Oikawa’s mouth.

Oikawa gets over his surprise quickly, an unintentional moan bubbling up his throat until he cuts it off, choking on it, and his body acts of its own accord as he rolls up and over to hover above Suga, arms bracing his weight on either side of Suga’s head.

He presses down, not hard enough to crush Suga with his weight but enough to feel the wonderful lines of his body against his, to feel the heat of his skin through his clothes and grow dizzy off of it, to bite back a groan when he feels the ripple of a shiver pass up Suga’s spine, his palms splaying flat across Oikawa’s back and tugging him closer until Oikawa feels like he’s burning, their legs entangled under the warm enclosure of the bedcovers.

His heart pounds at the way Suga looks when their mouths part for one, fleeting second, silver hair fanned out over Oikawa’s pillow like starlight, dark eyes solely and completely focused on Oikawa’s face, lips parted on a breath that Oikawa swallows when he slants his head and ducks back down, desire flooding his veins.

He’s not sure how long they stay there, too tired to do anything else but exchange kisses and touches until Oikawa’s mind is buzzing with slow, languid pleasure, time counted in the sounds of their breathing, in the number of times Oikawa can let his mouth travel down the edge of Suga’s jaw, tasting his skin with delicate flicks of his tongue and the gentle, teasing scrape of his teeth just to hear the noises Suga makes in return, before the other pulls him back up with pleading fingers and a whine against Oikawa’s ear, in the countless moments that Oikawa feels a new wave of overbearing affection for Suga warm his skin, every time he catches a glimpse of the rose blush covering Suga’s collarbones, soft and hazy, muted, in the early morning but still lovely, every time Suga arches up into him, leaving Oikawa’s breath short in his lungs and want pooling in the pit of his stomach.

But eventually the kisses grow shorter, more spaced out, exhaustion turning both of their movements sloppy, lazy, teeth clacking and noses bumping, and Oikawa leaves one last, lingering kiss to Suga’s mouth right after the other boy stifles a yawn, lowers himself carefully to slump next to Suga and noses into the crook of his neck.

They don’t exchange any more words, but underneath the pull of sleep, Oikawa’s body thrums with happiness, his heart still thumping loudly in his ears, his limbs curving towards Suga when the other shifts to wrap arms around his waist and burrow his face in Oikawa’s chest.

It’s only when Suga’s breathing evens out, when he’s fast asleep and his eyelashes are tickling the skin over Oikawa’s collarbones, that he realizes that Suga never answered his question.

The thought disappears with the weight of sleep, forgotten.

"I don’t know why I didn’t think about this before," Oikawa mutters to himself, voice low with exasperation.

Kunimi throws him a look, but doesn’t comment, the light filtering down between the buildings turning the mint shirt he’s wearing underneath his coat an even paler green, the black words printed across the front, "Sassy Since Birth", stark and bold.

Oikawa had originally given the shirt to Kunimi as a joke, something he had thought the other boy wouldn’t actually wear, that he would throw back in Oikawa’s face with a scowl gracing his mouth, but, surprisingly, Kunimi had grown quite attached to it, immediately slipping it on every time Oikawa brought it with the clean laundry to the guest bedroom.

It’s currently just the two of them, slipping down side roads and weaving through traffic, following a new idea that Yamaguchi had mumbled out over his toast this morning, bleary-eyed with a smudge of toothpaste lingering at the corner of his mouth.

They had been loosely discussing the parts of the city they had visited already, Chinatown and the shadowy lawns of Central Park, the neon-lit edges of Times Square and the residential, brick-lined streets surrounding Oikawa’s apartment, located closer to New York University.

Suga and Kunimi and Oikawa had been down countless alleys and backroads, had peered behind dumpsters and into shadowy corners, had meandered almost haphazardly in the small area they had covered because no one could remember where they had emerged into the city that first night, the running and the panic blurring any solid memories of landmarks or street names.

The facility they had run from could be anywhere in the city, in any direction, which only broadened the possibilities for where the others had escaped to hide.

"Escaped" and "hide" were words that fell from everyone’s lips easily, that the four of them used constantly, sacredly almost, because no one wanted to voice the other reality out loud, no one wanted to use "captured" or "found" even though the weight and the sound and the way they felt curled around your tongue when you spoke them all lingered over everyone’s heads, waiting to fall, waiting to cut and break with simplicity.

Empty space, Yamaguchi had murmured this morning, his eyes distant, endless fields of swaying green grass.

Empty space and less traveled roads and corners that screamed solitude.

Wouldn’t hiding somewhere like that make it easier to be taken?

No witnesses, no one to hear you scream or to see a boy with no soul waver around the rain-drenched ground like smoke.

Wouldn’t being around more people make it easier to hide?

_"You could blend in with everyone else,"_ Yamaguchi had continued, long fingers drawing invisible patterns over his thigh the way they seemed to do whenever he was lost in thought. _"And then you could disappear if you were found."_

The sharp honk of a car breaks Oikawa from his thoughts and he stumbles to a stop at the edge of a sidewalk, Kunimi’s hand shooting out and wrapping tightly around his wrist as a city bus plows by in a cloud of acrid exhaust.

Kunimi’s grip is gone as fast as it came, his hand slipping back into his coat pocket, but Oikawa flashes him a grateful smile, the gesture met with a half-hearted scowl and a mumbled, "Watch where you’re going."

Silence descends once more on the pair as they cross the road at the beckoning of the blinking crossing signal, the indistinguishable chatter of the people all around them filling the wordless air, and Oikawa lets himself sink into it, lets himself fall into the comfort of the hum of the city around him, the endless chatter and the electronic sounds of phone buttons being pushed, of music bleeding out through earphones, the rumble of traffic, the clack of heels on pavement, the breathless whoosh of an umbrella getting caught in the wind and skidding along the ground before it’s caught again.

Oikawa doesn’t mind Kunimi’s lack of enthusiasm for conversation, understands that the other is more comfortable with quiet, more at ease when he’s not being focused on, flickering at Oikawa’s side like the ink shadows he uses to jump between spaces, dark eyes reflecting the dust of antimatter, a glittering, beautiful backdrop amidst the smokescreens.

Oikawa lets his mind wander, lets it stray along tangents and brush over half-written facts until it settles onto this morning.

Suga hadn’t wanted to stay back, but none of them would let him leave, especially not after watching the way his knees wobbled when he tried to balance to pull his sneakers on at the front door.

"Using our abilities takes energy," Yamaguchi had told Oikawa quietly, immediately sensing Oikawa’s worry and stopping him from rushing over with two fingers to his elbow while Kunimi led Suga to the couch amidst weak protests. "Suga’s has always taken a little more."

"He’ll be fine once he sleeps it off," Yamaguchi had added a beat later, voice soft, comforting, warm like his sea-green eyes, catching the twist of Oikawa’s mouth from his peripheral vision.

Oikawa curls his fingers inside his coat pocket, remembers the lingering softness of Suga’s cheek against his fingertips right before he had slipped out the front door with Kunimi, Suga already asleep, chest rising and falling heavily, his eyelids fluttering with what Oikawa hoped were good dreams, the veins in his arms running rivers under a pallid complexion.

He had swallowed down the guilt of not noticing the toll the night before, of not seeing through Suga’s easy demeanor and the incredible strength he must’ve used to hold his shoulders up, a crimson ribbon laced between his shoulder blades, strung taught with sheer will.

Oikawa’s feet take a right to walk down a different street, Kunimi staying close by, and Oikawa’s mind wanders again, drifts to the phone call from his mother he had gotten this morning, her voice staticky over the long distance, Oikawa blinking sleep from his eyes and speaking as low as possible to keep from disturbing Suga, who hadn’t moved an inch from his position draped over Oikawa’s chest.

The call had been kept short, as they usually were to avoid paying a ridiculously-high phone bill, but the sound of his mom’s voice, the familiar ups and downs of different words and the breathy laugh that always accompanied her crazy, and possibly over-exaggerated, stories of the neighbor’s cat, were a balm to Oikawa’s mind, hit him with a nostalgia that was undeniably bittersweet but that also distracted him from everything else.

Home suddenly feels so far away, lost in the endless waves of movement that travel through this city, covered by skyscrapers and steel-gray clouds, as if Oikawa could take every train out of here, could stare out grimy windows as the scenery flew by outside until he reached the ocean, as if he could fly for hours and still be lost, cut off from the shape of his bedroom and the plaintive meow of the neighbor’s cat outside his window at three in the morning, the smell of his mom cooking in the kitchen and his father’s deep voice, his sister’s giddy laugh whenever she felt the baby kick.

Oikawa clears his throat quietly, swallows around the tightening in his chest, and reminds himself that he’s going home this spring, to visit right before graduation.

He doesn’t let himself think about Suga’s words from what feels like so long ago, the watery drip of water from the faucet the only sound in the bathroom, his hazel eyes reflecting what they both knew was the truth.

_"They’ll take you too, if they find me."_

He doesn’t let himself think about what that would do to them.

Oikawa’s gaze jerks to Kunimi, to focus on something else, on someone else, and he says, "We’re almost there," when he notices Kunimi rubbing his gloved hands together in the frigid air, his fingertips no doubt just as frozen as Oikawa’s are.

"I’m fine," Kunimi mumbles beneath his scarf, Oikawa readjusting his own coat and pulling his hat down farther over his eyes, now hiding his face just like the others.

After the encounter in the alley, the four of them had debated whether going out again so soon was too risky, whether they should give it a few days before they decided to leave the apartment.

Oikawa had tried suggesting that he could go alone since his face was unrecognizable, but Suga had immediately destroyed that line of thinking with a sharp look and a firm no that left no room for argument, that left Oikawa with the certainty that if he tried to press the matter, biting words would follow, that Suga would lose all and any softness in his eyes when he looked at him.

Eventually they had agreed that continuing their search as soon as possible was the best method of action, everyone pushed to desperation by the undeniable fact that they were being hunted, that there were eyes and ears within the city that were actively searching for a whisper, a glimpse, a fragment of proof of their whereabouts.

The faster they found the others, the better.

"It’s Yamaguchi who can’t stand the cold."

Kunimi’s voice drags Oikawa back down to the street, barely there and half-mumbled, but still something different to focus on than how terrified Oikawa has suddenly realized he's been feeling lately.

"I always helped him with the flowers when the weather was too overcast back at the facility," Kunimi continues, the words seemingly coming from nowhere, but Oikawa thinks that maybe, like him, Kunimi doesn’t want to dwell on the what if’s right now.

"We had a garden on every level, and Yamaguchi took care of all of them, every day, every night. He usually came back to bed with dirt under his nails and sometimes the thorns from the roses would scratch at his skin and leave these tiny, hairline cuts, but he was always so happy doing it."

Kunimi speaks as if he’s recounting a dream, the words leaving his lips almost mindlessly, as if he doesn’t care as much about who’s listening than that he’s being listened to.

Not for the first time Oikawa wonders about Kunimi, wonders about how he had felt about being raised away from his family, if he even remembers them, if he had something, someone, back at the facility that he had loved, that he still loves and misses.

He has the same questions for all of them, even Suga, who Oikawa feels the closest to, the images of their lives still blurry, watery, smudged, six lives that have become undeniably entangled with Oikawa’s over such a short span of time.

Oikawa thinks about Kunimi’s words and imagines dark soil, oval-shaped fingernails digging into soft ground and palms cradling fragile, unsteady offshoots and brushing over paper-thin petals, sees scarlet blooms and beads of same-colored blood springing up like raindrops across the back of knuckles smudged with dirt.

_"Crimson, red, scarlet, ruby, roses."_

Oikawa almost stops walking, his steps stuttering, and Kunimi catches it, turns his head fully this time to look at Oikawa, his gaze asking an unspoken question.

"It’s nothing," Oikawa says, scuffs the toe of his sneaker over a crack in the sidewalk and feels momentarily stupid for turning nothing into something.

It’s not unusual that Kunimi can remember the color of the flowers in the garden and that Suga can’t. Kunimi had just told Oikawa that he had helped Yamaguchi with the gardening, had probably spent more time crouched in the dirt pulling weeds and watering stems, the shades and tints of the flowers surrounding him imprinted more strongly in his mind, harder to remove, splashes of watercolors that stained his thoughts.

It wouldn’t be a bad idea, though, Oikawa thinks, to have everyone discuss their forgotten memories together, to see if there are any bigger inconsistencies, anything that stands out amidst the mellow washes of gray and pale yellow.

Oikawa doesn’t realize they’ve reached their destination until he glances up and glimpses the edge of alabaster-colored stone, the shadows of three symmetrical arches, and words carved into rock, stained verdigris with time and weather.

"The library?" Kunimi mumbles under his breath, side-eyeing Oikawa as a few flakes of snow begin to tumble down from the sky.

"It’s just an idea," Oikawa replies, keeping his eyes on the large building across the street.

He steels his voice with confidence, reminds himself of why he had thought of this place after Yamaguchi’s words this morning.

The New York City public library is magnificently large, three floors filled with endless shelves of books and rows of tables, large windows that peer out over the rectangular, green stretch of Bryant Park and that reflect emerald and turquoise and gold in the summer on hot nights when Oikawa sometimes goes to escape the stifling, muggy press of the air, pulling his sticky shirt away from his back and sighing in air-conditioned bliss.

He’s never really told anyone about why he’s spent countless hours amongst the cool, dusty shelves throughout the past three summers, but he has a sneaking suspicion that Iwaizumi somehow knows about his secret extraterrestrial research anyways. It’s the only way Oikawa can explain the other buying him a black leather satchel with the book "Mirror Earth" tucked inside, a simple note written and pressed carefully between the pages with the words "For when you need to _book it_ to the library.", for his nineteenth birthday.

Oikawa still suspects that Akaashi had been the one to come up with the pun, but the messy, imperfectly beautiful scrawl had definitely been Iwaizumi’s handwriting.

Oikawa brings his thoughts back to why him and Kunimi are here now, when the library spits out hot air instead of offering refuge for red-faced, sweating residents, when the windows reflect silver and white that throw long stripes of cold blue light over the stone floors inside, when the mahogany tables hold piles of scarves and steaming cups of caffeine, and the elaborately-painted ceilings look down over noses turned red from the chill, fingers laced together to push warmth back into pale fingertips.

Yamaguchi had made a good point when he had said it would be easy to blend in with more people around, that a crowd would be the perfect distraction for escaping if you were caught, but Oikawa hadn’t thought of Times Square or Wall Street or Broadway first.

He had thought of quiet, silent rows of shelves, of books with fragile bindings that sat in an equally fragile silence, of footsteps echoing through grand halls and the wave of hushed whispering that sometimes erupted from within corners, or the dull, muted hum of traffic and people outside windows that held the library within a glass bubble of solitude.

He had imagined the boy from the alley appearing within the quietude, imagined him breaking the delicate balance between stillness and chaotic movement, of causing a chain reaction of panic when a chase broke out or when a talent was unconsciously released into the air that was originally only heavy with words and the dust that collected along book spines.

It would the most imperfect place to launch an attack, the risk of drawing other people in, of drawing too much attention, too high, too much.

It’s a long-shot to suspect that one of the others is hiding here, Oikawa thinks as he walks up the steps leading to the front doors, the stone lions gracing the entryway staring at him with colorless, marble eyes, their stances relaxed and intimidating at the same time, motionless but looking like they could spring to life at any moment.

But it’s worth looking, just one more place to mark off their list if the search turns out empty.

Kunimi breathes out a sigh of relief when the wash of warm air hits them as they step through the front doors, the musty, lovely smell of books hitting Oikawa as soon as they’re three steps into the front hall.

White marble stretches out in front of them, expands into walls and the ceiling, sculpted into perfect angles, shining with the light of the chandeliers scattered around the hall.

Kunimi’s eyes are bright, glittering above his scarf, as he glances around, and Oikawa wonders what he’s thinking, knows that Suga would probably be able to tell just by looking if he were here with them.

The grounding weight that reminds him that he’s responsible for keeping Kunimi safe here hits Oikawa shortly afterwards, and he takes a deep breath, gestures for Kunimi to follow him.

"We’ll stay together," he tells him, mind already mapping out the floors of the library and all of the escape routes he knows of. "If you see someone who looks familiar or notice anything unusual, tap my wrist to get my attention."

Kunimi nods, eyes steeled, as strong as the marble that makes up this library, his dark bangs feathering out from under his hat.

"If we need to go, I’m not waiting," he tells Oikawa. "I’ll jump us out of here so don’t be surprised if it happens."

Oikawa remembers the last time it happened vividly, the absolutely disorienting sensation of collapsing into the air itself, of being swallowed by shadows and darkness until he was as lost as he could ever imagine being, and nods, even as his insides shiver.

Kunimi holds his gaze for a split second longer, just long enough for Oikawa to remember the other boy’s words in Kuroo and Daichi’s kitchen.

_"What if I failed?"_

A surge of respect quickly surfaces in Oikawa’s chest when he catches the flicker of fire in Kunimi’s otherwise dark gaze, but he resists the urge to speak about it and instead schools his features into an expression of ease, of trust, into a look he always tries to give his teammates on the court even when they’re all under suffocating pressure.

"Let’s go then," Oikawa says, and Kunimi hesitates only a breath longer, staring at Oikawa’s face, eyes unreadable, before he nods.

The library is vast, ceilings that arch into the sky and towering pillars, and Oikawa lets his eyes rove over the familiar shapes as they step through another set of doors to the first main room, remembers sitting at various tables with his head bent over countless books, reading until his eyes burned and his stomach growled, the sun slowly sinking below the horizon outside the windows and smudging the lines of everything with purple, the fragile pages, his fingertips as they skimmed over a line, the edges of his hair when it fell into his eyes and the half-circle of perspiration left on the table from his iced coffee.

The library is full, as it always is, students and children and elderly people, who turn the pages of the books in the same manner that they would greet an old friend, occupying the spaces and letting the sunlight filter through and rest on bowed heads, on shoes tapping the floor quietly as they study, on the silent, subconscious mouthing of words as they read to themselves.

None of them pay Kunimi and Oikawa any attention as they pass, but the two boys study everyone’s faces, Kunimi’s eyes searching and wide, his back straight and his fingers doing an anxious curl and uncurl at his sides, a motion that gnaws at Oikawa’s own mental state, that leaves him breathless with both expectation and nerves.

The faces begin to blur together after some time, after Oikawa and Kunimi have walked down countless hallways and up numerous steps, after they’ve searched the entire first floor and have passed through half of the second, start to turn into an assembly line of eyes and noses and lips, of hair that’s the wrong color, heights that don’t quite measure up right, eyes that don’t give them any second glances.

Kunimi doesn’t say a word, the only sounds surrounding the two being the measured rhythm of their footsteps.

There hadn’t been any expectations before leaving this morning, Oikawa knows, so by the time they’re climbing the stairs to the third and final level, their movements have just turned into a set of motions, machine-programmed and executed, stiff and formal, and Oikawa longs for the taste of sunshine on his tongue, misses the whisper of the breeze over his face for the first time that he’s ever been here.

He wonders vaguely if Suga has woken up yet, if Yamaguchi is sitting by his side or staring out the windows and imagining, remembering paper-thin petals and green stems and thorns that he loved unconditionally no matter how much they scratched and drew blood.

The third floor passes by quickly, effortlessly, the dead stretch of grass of Bryant Park now below them through the windows, highlighted from the back by the smoky clouds of car exhaust on the street and the rush of people and the barely there fall of snow, flurries of white that remind Oikawa of the blank spaces in between the words printed along a page.

Oikawa leads Kunimi into a back row of shelves at the end of the last room on the third floor, the shadows collecting like cobwebs in the corners and splashing dark lines over Kunimi’s face when he pulls his scarf down to breathe, the disappointment in his eyes barely noticeable.

"We can check a few more places before we head back," Oikawa says first, mimicking Kunimi’s action and tugging at his own scarf, breathing in the comforting scents of paper and ink and the lemon-scented cleaner the library always seems to use to polish the tables, sharp and citrusy against his nose.

Kunimi doesn’t answer him, just stares down at his shoes, the sides stained with the salt that the city has poured over the sidewalks and the streets to melt the ice, seems to debate something in his head before he meets Oikawa’s gaze, his face serious and vulnerable at the same time, and Oikawa is suddenly struck by an image of the kids back home, the ones who used to linger outside the school gym on the weekends until Oikawa emerged, still in his sweaty volleyball uniform, the burn in his muscles vivid and lingering, his fingers taped to cover cuts and blisters.

"Stop looking at them like you look at Tobio," Iwaizumi would chide, hitting Oikawa on the back of the head and glaring. "They’re just kids."

"And potential future rivals," Oikawa would stage-whisper, rubbing his neck and wincing, not moving his gaze away from the wide eyes that stared up at him, the colorfully-bandaged knees and the runny noses and the messy pigtails, the intense and determined expressions.

Oikawa had always responded that way, but in reality he adored the kids, loved crouching down on sore knees and listening carefully as each one stepped up in front of him from the makeshift line they had formed, asking a volleyball-related question and then retreating when they got their answer.

Iwaizumi had always joked that it inflated his pride even further, that the kids only raised the Grand King’s throne to unbearable heights and wrought misery for the rest of the team when they had to listen to Oikawa preen and show-off the next morning, but Oikawa knew that Iwaizumi was always secretly pleased with Oikawa’s patience, that he would wait just as long to walk home until every kid had run off, waving their hands and grinning from ear-to-ear.

Apart from becoming some kind of astronomer, or an astronaut for NASA, or the first person to speak with aliens, Oikawa has always, always harbored a spot in his chest that longs to coach children, to watch them grow and thrive under his watch and care.

That same look that had been on those children’s faces all of those years ago is now on Kunimi’s, and Oikawa waits, waits for the other to speak, to ask.

He’s so focused on Kunimi’s next words, on anticipating what Kunimi wants to ask him, that he almost misses the change in the other’s facial expression even as it unfurls in front of him, blooms open like a flower in summer, as vivid as garnet petals, as agonizing as thorns.

It’s the sudden, automatic shift of a gaze, the shocked widening of dark eyes, the breathless parting of lips around a name and the rush of blood from cheeks, leaving pale spots of rose behind on cheekbones.

Oikawa catches it a beat too late, is only able to spin around and glimpse messily-cut copper bangs and cloud-gray eyes that are just as large as Kunimi’s before a second figure joins the first, two new shadows melding with Oikawa’s and Kunimi’s along the hard floor.

Ash-blonde that bleeds into something darker. Raven-black eyebrows that lie straight over tawny eyes, expressionless.

_"Wrong,"_ Oikawa thinks, staring at those eyes. _"Something’s wrong."_

It happens in the blink of an eye, so fast that Oikawa barely has time to breathe in between motions, so fast that it’s impossible to reach out, to wrap fingers around Kunimi’s wrist and stop this, stop him.

He flickers out of focus, rearranging space as if someone has taken a knife and sliced the air into ribbons, as if he’s wrapping the shadows around every angle, every line of his body and is sinking into an alternate universe, stepping through an invisible door, disappearing from Oikawa’s side, but not before Oikawa catches the sharp curve of a snarl, the outright fury that burns over his face, pale fingers that dig fingernails into palms with enough force to tear, to rip.

Oikawa watches, the only thing he can do, watches as the darkness behind the two newcomers ripples, shifts, changes into the outline of Kunimi, his eyes two glittering, black holes in his face.

Oikawa watches and tries to move and can’t.

Oikawa watches and Kunimi wraps tight fingers around the neck of the boy with dead eyes.


	20. blooms of roses and shattering heights

Time seems to stop, screeching to a halt, like some kind of train wreck, twisted metal scattered amongst broken, shattered bodies, misery and horrible, horrible denial before reality sinks in lingering in the crimson that stains the tracks, in the stomach-twisting smell of burning gasoline and the glint of mangled railcars, before seconds and minutes hitch back into motion, dragging across the ground, limping, staggering, trailing a path of garnet, slow, slow, slow.

Oikawa can feel every single beat of his heart in the moments that follow.

They seem to measure what’s happening, here between two bookshelves with nothing but words and dust as witnesses, seem to capture it all and copy it to Oikawa’s muddled thoughts.

There’s the outline of fingers, knuckles and nails, wrapped around the throat of the boy with hair like smoke that edges into ash, a tattoo of sticky tar shadows that rests like a necklace against his skin, flickering in and out of profile.

There’s the parted mouth of the other boy, his lips falling open in a shout that Oikawa doesn’t hear over the incessant ringing in his ears, his eyes large and shocked and then full of fury, the emotion twisting his features into something dangerous.

There’s the expression of the boy who Kunimi has a hold of, frighteningly blank, a sheet of white paper, eyes that are empty and nothing else, windows that lead to nowhere and nothing.

Shock lances up Oikawa’s spine as he meets those emotionless eyes with his own, a shudder at the utter lack of fear, of anger, of anything, shock, desperation, pleading, even as the hands around his neck tighten, paint bruises and cut off oxygen.

Nothing, there’s nothing.

It’s that expression that has Oikawa moving, dragging his feet across the ground, stumbling over his shoes until he rights himself, until time snaps back into place and he can hear himself breathe again, his heart thumping fast and painful and loud.

"Kunimi, stop," he tries to say, but adrenaline is punching through his stomach, sends him running forward, his right shoulder slamming into the edge of a shelf painfully before he regains his balance, and the words are lost in the pages that surround them.

His sneakers squeak over the floor, move past the gloves Kunimi had dropped to the ground a millisecond before he jumped, push him closer, closer, until he’s an arms-reach from the other three.

Oikawa reaches for Kunimi’s hands, reaches to unwrap them, to stop all of this because everything feels wrong, desperation pooling in Oikawa’s stomach, shock still sharp on his tongue, citrus and vivid and blindingly bright.

He can see Kunimi’s face over the other boy’s shoulder, can see the crackle and snap of energy in his eyes, the pull to the shadows, the remnants of his jump lingering over his skin, wisps and curls of darkness that blend with the tips of his hair and highlight the anger, the determination, the terror that turns his lips into a tight, straight line, that leaves his fingers curling, curling, curling tighter, tighter, tighter.

Oikawa reaches, fingers outstretched, at the same time that a ribbon of black flutters to the floor, a length of silk that drifts from the fingers of the boy with the shrewd, steel-cut eyes.

Different fingers, ones that Oikawa are not familiar with, brush against his knuckles, an accident, a collision as they both reach for the same person, Oikawa with words caught in his throat and the other boy with an expression of defiance.

It’s a mistake.

Oikawa knows immediately, sees it on the other boy’s face when he turns towards him, startled, something flickering through his eyes, looking for all of the world as if someone has just shot him in the chest, stunned and unexpected and horrible.

Oikawa barely has time to blink.

_The smell of gym floor wax, blinding fluorescent lights that throw everything into sharp, agonizing contrast, and an ache that had come and never really left, not even after he had been weaned off of the pain meds, not even after the months of grueling physical therapy, not even after he had managed to set foot on the court again._

_Oikawa lands from a jump serve, shoes squeaking against his high school gym floor and tries not to scream as he watches yet another volleyball hit the net and fall back onto the wrong side of the court._

_Sweat drips down his face, down the back of his neck, lingers on his tongue when he licks his lips. His limbs ache, his knee is throbbing._

_But none of that matters, all of it is irrelevant and annoying and Oikawa grabs another ball defiantly._

_Something else prickles at the back of his mind, something strange and off that tells him something he can’t quite make out over the frustration that leaves him short-tempered and desperate._

_He pushes it away, raises his hand to throw the ball, knees bent to run forward, to jump, even if there’s nothing but a long, hard fall at the end._

_The sound of the gym doors opening screeches through the room._

_Oikawa turns, lets the ball fall from where he’d already tossed it into the air, hears it hit once, thump, twice, thump, three times, before it quiets._

_Iwaizumi stands there, silhouetted by the light pouring in from the hallway outside, stands and looks at him and Oikawa can already tell something is wrong, just by looking at his face._

_The gym is so dark, Oikawa suddenly notices, so dark and filled with shadows, and it feels like they’re sucking him in the longer he stands there, his shoes stuck to the floor, the tendrils, the edges, of them stroking his arms and running soft fingers over the back of his neck._

_"Iwa-chan," Oikawa tries to say, but the name sticks in his throat._

_"I knew you’d be here," Iwaizumi says, and his voice is as distant as he seems, no teasing undertone, no fond exasperation, just flat and direct._

_"I was just practi-," Oikawa starts to say, feeling the sudden urge to explain, but Iwaizumi talks over him, his expression suddenly hidden by the way he’s standing, thrown into darkness, his arms hanging at his sides._

_"Yeah, I know, you were just practicing. That’s all you ever do."_

_Oikawa frowns, tries to take a step forward, thrown off more by Iwaizumi’s tone than his words._

_"Iwa-," Oikawa starts._

_"You work and work and work, and you never think about anyone but yourself," Iwaizumi says, and there’s no mistaking the disdain in his voice now, the sheer disgust, and Oikawa sucks in a startled breath, sharp and agonizing._

_"You just can’t let it go, can you?" Iwaizumi asks, taking advantage of Oikawa’s stunned silence. "You have to prove to yourself that you can change, that you can be the best, even after you’ve been through something like that."_

_Iwaizumi jerks one arm up to gesture at Oikawa’s knee, and Oikawa can barely tear his eyes away from Iwaizumi’s form to glance down, to stare at the brace that is wrapped around his leg, that keeps him steady even as he aches, yearns, to rip it off._

_Why, why is Iwaizumi saying these things?_

_Why can’t Oikawa respond?_

_"You blame yourself, I know, I can see it on your face when you lie to me, when you say you’re fine, that nothing’s wrong, when you shut me out, time and time again."_

_Iwaizumi is speaking again, but Oikawa can barely focus on the words over the ringing in his ears, the nausea that has started to swirl in the pit of his stomach._

_The shadows inch up his legs._

_"When are you ever going to stop? When are you ever going to realize that you’ll never change? I’m tired of always having to be there to cater to your mood swings, to deal with your stupid obsessions," Iwaizumi says, and his voice is cold, brittle, wound through with anger and loathing and Oikawa tries to say something, anything, but he’s drowning, sinking farther and farther with every word, each of them hitting him straight in the chest, and Iwaizumi might as well as be shooting him._

_"You blame yourself," Iwaizumi repeats. "Maybe you should."_

_Oikawa reels backwards, the words like a slap to the face, his mouth finally, finally working as Iwaizumi turns and starts to walk back towards the light, leaving Oikawa behind in the dark._

_"Wait, Hajime, wait, please, don’t go, don’t leave me here, don’t leave me alone," Oikawa babbles, trying to run forward, trying to drag his feet across the gym floor, but the shadows have turned tight and constricting, are holding him in place even as he struggles to move._

_A cold, cold hand creeps up, wraps ink fingers around his right knee, injects him with morphine and stillness, and even then Oikawa holds his breath when Iwaizumi turns around to face him again, his eyes bright in the gloom._

_"Haji-," Oikawa whispers, pleads, cries, his voice cracking on his best friend’s name, the first bloom of hope unfurling in his chest because Iwaizumi wouldn’t truly leave him, would never give up on him like this. "Don’t leave me alone."_

_"I can change," Oikawa wants to tell him. "I can be better."_

_But he’s frozen still, waiting for Iwaizumi to say something, to come help him._

_"Oh Tooru," Iwaizumi says instead, his mouth twisting up at the corners in a smile that never reaches his eyes, that stabs Oikawa right through the heart. "Don’t you get it?"_

_The hand tightens around Oikawa’s knee._

_"You’ve always been alone."_

_The pressure around Oikawa’s leg jerks, and he’s sent tumbling, falling, incredible pain ripping up through his knee when he strikes the ground, tears he didn’t even realize were there flowing down his cheeks and tumbling from his chin, and Oikawa can't keep it in any longer._

_He screams, as the door slams shut behind Iwaizumi as he walks away, as the pain continues to tear through him until all he can see are vivid flashes of light behind his eyelids, as the darkness rises up, up, up, and consumes him completely._

_The hospital room is too bright, too sterile, too much, too everything, and Oikawa bites down on his knuckles to keep from letting the cry in his chest escape, his teeth piercing his skin hard enough to draw blood, to taste it in his mouth alongside the chalk of medicine._

_He must be imagining that last part, must be dreaming that he can taste anything but copper on his tongue, he thinks vaguely, because he’s not the one in the hospital bed._

_His sister sits, her head downturned, her dark hair falling in a curtain over her face, her arms cradled up to her chest._

_Empty space._

_That’s all she’s holding._

_They’re waiting, all of them, Oikawa, his parents, Hana, her husband, all waiting, waiting, waiting for the doctor to come back in._

_There had been nothing, no noise, no cries, no wails from the baby when it had emerged frighteningly still and nerve-shattering placid, just silence, just the quiet murmur of the nurses and the doctor, a hum that had slid unpleasantly over Oikawa’s skin, that had lodged deep and dark in his stomach until he had felt sick, until he had felt like vomiting up everything he had eaten today._

_The silence hasn’t left since then, has only gotten heavier and settled over everything, over the quiet sobs his mother is trying to hold back, over the sharp line of his brother-in-law’s shoulders as he grips the edge of the hospital bed with white knuckles, over the weariness in his father’s eyes and the tap Oikawa can’t seem to stop doing with his foot against the floor and the sweaty tangles of his sister’s hair that she makes no move to push back from her face._

_Despair chokes all of them and doesn’t let go._

_The doctor comes back in after what has felt like decades, after Oikawa can’t remember what it feels like to breathe._

_The apology on his lips is nothing but a proclamation of death._

_Hana starts to cry then, loud, horrible wails that don’t sound entirely human, like an injured animal._

_Oikawa can do nothing but stare at her empty arms, still cradled to her chest, even as his world goes fuzzy around the edges, even as he feels everything overturn, never to be the same ever again, even as he feels his own wails rise in his throat._

_Oikawa stares at his sister’s empty arms._

_Empty space._

_The rain is relentless, thunders down around them, and it washes away all of the blood, leaves the pavement clean as if someone isn’t lying there, slowly fading away._

_"Suga," Oikawa whispers, running hands down the other boy’s arms, pressing shaking fingers to his neck, trying to find something, anything, a pulse, a breath._

_So much blood, everywhere, all over the front of Oikawa’s shirt, all over his hands, highlighting Suga’s hair with a backdrop of crimson as it pools beneath him, and Suga’s eyes are closed, lashes lying against his cheeks, his mouth parted on an exhale that Oikawa can’t feel._

_Something snaps inside of Oikawa, something breaks, and he digs fingers into Suga’s shoulders, shakes him, his voice raw and shattered when he speaks._

_"Wake up, Suga," he says, tries not to yell. "We have to go, we can’t stay here."_

_The rain pours down Suga’s motionless face, pools at his clavicles._

_"Koushi, wake up, we have to go now," Oikawa pleads, his brain refusing to acknowledge what has happened even as he starts to cry._

_"Koushi, you have to get up," he begs, yanking the other boy’s limp figure up and into a sitting position. "Please get up."_

_Suga’s body slumps into Oikawa’s arms, and the weight, the dead weight of him, the lack of air where Suga’s mouth rests against Oikawa’s neck, the lack of warmth from his skin, all of it narrows down to the one, undeniable truth that Oikawa is frantically trying to ignore._

_"Koushi," Oikawa sobs, carding fingers through hair that is stiff with dried blood, cradling a boy who can no longer create stars against his chest._

_The rain falls._

Blood.

Oikawa can taste it on his tongue, can feel an unidentifiable sting across his right palm, and for one delirious second he raises his arms and his hands open and close on open air, expecting to feel someone against him, expecting to look down and see Suga’s face, terrifyingly still, expecting to be drenched in rain and blood that isn’t his, and his stomach twists in absolute terror, wrenching up against his ribs, a strangled gasp escaping his lips.

But all that greets his gaze is a towering row of bookshelves on either side, a floor that is cold against his palms but dry, not soaked with rainwater, and three sets of shoes surrounding him.

Oikawa staggers to his feet, overwhelmingly nauseous, his brain buzzing with panic, with grief, until a hand rests on his shoulder, steadying him.

Kunimi’s face swims into view when Oikawa’s vision clears long enough for him to make out more than blurred shapes, his heart pounding frantically, his shirt drenched with sweat under his coat.

Oikawa can’t even draw the breath to speak, the names of the people he had just seen, the people he had just been with, pounding through his head with an urgency that frightens him.

_Hajime, Hana, Koushi._

_Hajime, Hana, Koushi._

_Hajime, Hana, Koushi._

"Oikawa," Kunimi is saying, his features pinched and tired, his voice low but steady. "Oikawa, it’s okay. It wasn’t real."

Oikawa feels a hiss of pain run through his palm when Kunimi grabs his right hand in a desperate gesture to calm the heaving breaths Oikawa knows his chest is rising and falling rapidly with, and Oikawa yanks it away, stares down at the minor cut across his skin, registering vaguely that he must’ve scraped it when he, at some point, ended up on the floor.

His tongue hurts, as if he’d bitten down on it, the taste of blood lingering on his teeth.

It takes two more breaths to realize where he is, to remember what had been happening, and his head whips up, registering that Kunimi is by his side again, no longer with his hands wrapped around the boy’s throat.

The relief at the realization that all of _that_ must’ve been a hallucination, that all of _that_ was just some sick, twisted dream, no matter how real it had felt, has Oikawa clutching at something, anything, and his hand finds the edge of Kunimi’s coat as he fights the nausea that still creeps up the back of his throat.

Kunimi doesn’t say anything else, just stands a little bit closer.

The boy with the copper hair is in their space suddenly, before Oikawa can look for the other one, taking a step too close for comfort, especially after whatever just happened.

"Suga," he says, his voice haunted, staring at Oikawa with wide eyes and his fists clenched at his sides.

Oikawa can see a light sheen of sweat over his forehead, curling his bangs to his skin, remembers those fingers brushing over his hand, right before the nightmares had started.

That same hand raises up, the boy’s eyes glazed over, distant, as if he’s acting unconsciously, as if he’s going to grab Oikawa’s shoulder.

Oikawa reacts instinctively to the sudden movement, anger and terror pooling in his stomach, and he draws back quickly, snarling out, "Don’t touch me," at the same time that Kunimi grits out, "Don’t touch him," through clenched teeth.

Oikawa is momentarily and briefly surprised at Kunimi’s words, but the other boy still has his hand wrapped around Oikawa’s upper arm, holding him up, is still letting Oikawa fist his fingers in his jacket to the point that he can almost hear the stitches pop.

The boy recoils, his eyes snapping to Kunimi’s face, his entire body jerking at the vehemence in Kunimi’s tone as if he’s just woken from a dream, and Oikawa looks past him, finally finds the other boy, still standing in the exact same place, a constant amidst everything else, so quiet and still that Oikawa can almost imagine him as a statue in somebody’s garden, can almost imagine him taking his place with the lions that frame the steps leading up into the library, a boy carved into time and space.

Oikawa glances at the boy’s neck, sees the faint shadow of bruises forming there, and swallows, everything too much, his body still lost, kneeling on a volleyball court, sitting in a hospital chair, crouching on rain-soaked pavement that reflected nothing but dark clouds and that was stained through with blooms of roses, even as his mind tries to jerk him back to reality.

Oikawa remembers Kunimi’s words, that he would jump them without hesitation if something were to go wrong, and right now, he wishes more than anything that he would because the library suddenly feels unfamiliar, frightening, tall, looming shadows and suffocating silence.

He can’t shake the images, the words, the terror from whatever the boy had done to him, can’t stop hearing the sickening disdain in Iwaizumi’s voice, can’t stop his stomach from lurching and darkness settling over his vision whenever he thinks of Hana and his nephew, can’t stop feeling the warm, wet horror of Suga’s blood flowing over his fingers.

He wants to run, to just take off and not look back until he can’t remember any of it, until he can’t run anymore.

Oikawa’s fingers jerk in his pocket to wrap around his cellphone, his mind begging him to dial his sister’s number, to text Iwaizumi, to call Daichi or Kuroo and ask them to go over to his apartment and give Suga the phone.

But Kunimi’s voice is suddenly there, close enough for Oikawa to feel his breath across his cheek, and he realizes just how heavily he’s leaning against Kunimi for support, his knees weak and the fingers that aren’t gripping Kunimi’s shirt trembling against the smooth surface of his cellphone screen.

Kunimi’s words are loud in the heavy air, or maybe that's because Oikawa is so close, each syllable ringing in his ears.

"Why is he here, Shirabu?"

The question is straight to the point, no messy coverups, no smudges around the edges, and Oikawa finally has a name for one of the faces, finally looks at neat, tawny bangs and that twist that never seems to fully leave the other boy’s mouth and can remember Suga saying, "Shirabu, he constantly had his nose in the research papers the teachers sometimes left lying around, was always the first one to read the statistics from our performance exams every month."

Shirabu is unflinching, even under Kunimi’s heated gaze, his stance wide and protective, and Oikawa doesn’t miss the barely concealed ire that passes between the two.

It’s the complete opposite of the reaction Kunimi had had towards Yamaguchi, nothing like what Oikawa had been expecting, and he knows, is able to figure it out just from the tight thread of tension that ties these two together, that something besides the boy behind Shirabu must’ve caused it to be like this, cold shoulders and guarded eyes and sharp words.

Oikawa forces himself to straighten up, to release his hold on Kunimi’s coat, and takes a deep, inward breath, grounds himself, remembers why they came here in the first place, glancing around to make sure no one else in the library has wandered over during the commotion, that there aren’t any unwanted onlookers.

The back corner of the library is untouched, just the four of them standing in a loose circle, sunlight filtering down from the long windows, dust motes swirling through the air.

"He got out, just like us," Shirabu answers, voice pitched low so it won’t carry, eyes flashing, and for the first time, Oikawa notices that his left hand is wrapped, covered from wrist to the tips of his fingers in what looks like ebony silk, the ribbon wound with skill and grace, tied neatly, no creases or loose ends.

Oikawa’s eyes wander over the floor, find a matching bundle of silk near Shirabu’s sneakers, and his eyes flick back up to Shirabu’s bare right hand, his fingers curled up, hiding his palm.

Oikawa bites back his shudder with irritation, anger fueled by stress and the still-lingering dregs of panic that pump through his veins like poison, angry at himself for being unable to shake it off and angry at Shirabu, even though it had seemed to be an accident, for putting him through it.

He wants to ask him what it was, what it meant, wants to shake him until Shirabu tells him that none of it held any truth.

But Oikawa’s legs are like lead, weighting him to the floor, his throat hurts, as if he’d actually been screaming.

And Kunimi is talking again, the words hissed out from between clenched teeth.

"You know what I mean," he sibilates, his eyes narrowed.

Oikawa stays quiet even though it’s killing him slowly, stays close to Kunimi just in case the other tries to lunge forward again, tries to attack the still nameless boy lingering behind Shirabu.

His phone buzzes suddenly, startles Oikawa enough that he flinches and misses whatever Shirabu says next, and he yanks it out, heart suddenly pounding again, endless horrible possibilities filling his mind in the span of a millisecond, stares down at the screen and feels the anxiety drain from him as fast as it had come when he registers a normal text from Iwaizumi.

Oikawa lets his eyes linger on the message long enough to catch the words, "Akaashi" and "extra food" and "text me if you want me to drop it off", long enough for his phone to dim again and for him to catch sight of his reflection on the screen, dark circles under his eyes as if he hasn’t slept in weeks, mouth in a grim straight line.

_"You’ve always been alone."_

The words rise without permission, uninvited and intrusive, to the forefront of Oikawa’s thoughts.

_"Not true,"_ he thinks viciously, shoves them away furiously.

His fingers tighten around his phone as if he can ink the text message from Iwaizumi into his skin, as if he can take the neat, digital curves of the letters and the spaces and code them into his ribs until he’s reminded of them every time he breathes.

"Semi isn’t the monster in this."

Shirabu’s voice and words has Oikawa’s head snapping back up in shock, his sluggish attention jerking back to the conversation at hand, slipping his phone back into his pocket, words on his lips, ready to ask Kunimi what the hell is going on, his eyes flickering immediately to the boy behind Shirabu, Semi, because wasn’t he the one who didn’t get out, the one that had started the entire chain reaction of all of this, the catalyst, the person Suga had talked about with sickening, crushing guilt, the one he had cried over?

Semi stares back at them, unfazed, lifeless except for the undeniable animation of his eyes, and Oikawa swallows down the wrench his stomach gives, remembers Suga’s description of wires and tests and screaming, and tries not to think about what must’ve happened for him to turn out like this, colorless and drained, like the flowers in Yamaguchi’s gardens that Suga can’t remember.

_"How can Kunimi find him threatening?"_ Oikawa thinks, bewildered, dragging his gaze from Semi to watch Shirabu bend down and grab the silk from the floor, to watch Kunimi curl his lips back over his teeth before he answers.

Kunimi seems to have forgotten that Oikawa is here, standing next to him, his dark eyes burning and solely focused on Shirabu.

"Did you actually forget what happened? Were your memories altered regarding him?" he asks Shirabu, voice flat and covered in frost. "Or have you just decided to do that on your own?"

Shirabu doesn’t look at either of them for the first time, just focuses his gaze down on wrapping the ink-colored ribbon around his right hand, moving quickly, surely, as if he's done this a million times before, but Oikawa can see the way his fingers tremble, just slightly, barely there, as he covers his skin inch by inch.

"Look at him," Shirabu says, his voice barely distinguishable even though they can’t be more than two feet apart.

His voice shakes almost as much as his hands, the words almost choked out.

"Look at him, Akira," he repeats, winding the ribbon around and around and around. "Look at what they did to him."

Shirabu’s face is downturned, his mouth twisting up into a grimace, eyes shadowed by his bangs.

The words are angry, short, quivering with rage and sorrow and Shirabu’s voice steadily grows louder the longer he wraps the night sky around his fingers.

He tucks the last end under with an air of finality, both hands finally completely covered, and Oikawa notices in the back of his mind that no bracelet adorns either of Shirabu’s wrists, no sign of glittering words or onyx edges decorate the wings of his wrist bones.

Shirabu raises his head then, looks up at Oikawa and Kunimi with eyes that glint with tears born of fury, of frustration and grief.

"They broke him," he spits out, the words falling around them like the shattering of glass, razor-edged and tinged lavender. "They erased everything he ever was, dropped him from a height that no one can come back from, and then left the pieces. His past is gone, has nothing to do with thi-"

"You’re wrong," Kunimi interjects so forcefully that all Shirabu can do is break off and stare at him, wide-eyed and shocked.

"You’re wrong," Kunimi says again, his fingernails digging into his palms, his voice rough, ragged.

"It doesn’t matter, none of it changes anything, doesn’t change what he did."

Kunimi’s words are the only thing that fills the space the four of them are taking up, all of them seemingly holding their breath, Shirabu’s face draining of color.

"He may be different, Kenjirou," Kunimi rasps out, and his voice is broken.

"But he’s still a murderer."


	21. the fizz of lemonsoda and swirling tea leaves

Underwater.

Heavy and weightless at the same time, muted, pressed down on from all sides.

Oikawa had broken into the high school pool building once on a dare, when he was sixteen.

The lock had been easy enough to pick, the broken paperclip discarded into the grass outside afterwards, had left the door swinging open onto muffled darkness and the tang of chlorine.

He remembers small things from that night.

The sway of the flashlight beams over the walls, the bright, vivid pink of the band-aid wrapped around one of his fingers, stifled laughter and a motionless pool surface, the moon casting everything in alabaster through the window and the sticky humidity that curled his hair to his forehead, the nape of his neck.

It had been a bittersweet jump into the water, his jeans and t-shirt crumpled up on the concrete floor behind him, tossed into a messy pile with his sneakers and socks.

Bittersweet, because even though the chlorinated water felt amazing against his sticky skin, even though it washed away the salt and the sweat, even though Oikawa had remembered to take off his glasses, had folded them carefully into the hem of his shirt, leaving everything around him blurry and smudged, he had somehow forgotten to put his phone down, to leave it behind on the dry floor.

It had joined the pool water with him, still clutched in his right hand, had sputtered and glitched and complained in high-pitched beeps and clicks when he had realized his mistake and was trying to revive it, kneeling on cold, damp ground in his wet boxers, patting it down furiously with one of the legs of his discarded pants while Iwaizumi prayed for patience and Makki and Mattsun howled with laughter from the middle of the pool, their voices echoing off of the walls, distorted and loud and annoyingly boisterous.

That’s how Oikawa feels right now.

Not the exasperated shame of realizing that he would have to tell his parents that he needed a new phone because his just-as-new-one was ruined beyond repair, waterlogged and cracked where he had thrown it against a wall to make it look like he had dropped it instead, the secret about breaking into the school pool forever kept in the pruned fingers and the secret smirks and the poorly-lit, chlorine-stained selfie Mattsun had printed out for them afterwards, grinning faces and bare, freckled shoulders and dripping wet hair all competing to get into the frame.

Not the fizzy, bubbly, lemonsoda thrill of sneaking in, of doing something that, to a bunch of adrenaline-filled, baby-faced (or at least, Iwaizumi still was), gangly sixteen-year-olds felt as momentous as conquering the world.

No, what Oikawa feels right now is the weightless, sinking, blurry-edged and disoriented sensation of water closing in over his head, of regular sound replaced with eerie, echoing silence, of sharp colors and straight lines replaced with ripples and clouds of white where someone else had jumped in right next to him, everything overlaid with gray, muted blue.

He feels like he’s walking in a broken time-lapse, the tips of his sneakers dragging over concrete, like he’s walking across the bottom of that same pool, only now it’s filled with upside-down city buildings and streets that run over the surface of the water above his head, the exhaust from the cars and the buses turning the water dirty, suffocating and gray.

It’s as if someone has lifted the city up, flipped it over, wrong-side up, has dumped it into that small high-school pool so that the lights waver underwater, watery and dim, so that the sounds are muffled and far away, so that all Oikawa can do is put one foot in front of the other, moving in slow motion.

_"Murderer?" A sharp laugh, disbelieving, mocking. "There’s a difference between blaming yourself and truly being at blame."_

_"Don’t try to make excuses, Kenjirou. He admitted it himself, when we confronted him about it."_

_"He didn’t." Hissed words, the pretense of amusement dropped, defiant, defensive. "You’re blinded by your own grief, Akira. Blinded by what happened to you-"_

_"Shut up!"_

_Too loud, too much, a shout that echoes._

_"Kunimi-"_

_A pause, bated breaths, waiting for the silence to return, fists unclenching at sides with obvious force._

_And then…_

_"I want you to come with us, Shirabu." A voice that is quieter, but cold, rigid and insincere. "But he has to go."_

_The answer is instantaneous, a matchstick sparking into flame._

_"Like hell."_

_"I hate to be the one to say it, but we can’t stay here and argue all day."_

_"He can’t come back with us, Oikawa. You don’t know what he’s done-"_

_"So you’re just going to leave us here?"_

_Another pause, and then…_

_"Have you found the others?" Hopeful, desperate, breathless, as if the thought has just now struck._

_Silence._

_"Kunimi, have you found the others?" Repeated, more forceful, angry._

_"Some of them."_

_"Who?" Another pause, a flick of eyes towards the boy who hasn’t said a word this entire time._

_"Who, Akira, damnit? Who else?" Barely contained, another raised voice, struggling not to shout._

_"I-"_

_A sigh, a scowl, reluctance dripping from the hunch of shoulders._

_"Yamaguchi and Suga."_

_The quiet catch of a breath, shining eyes._

_"Yahaba, Kenma-"_

_"I don’t know." Reserved, tired._

_So very, very tired._

Oikawa walks and walks and floats and tries to breathe, tries to push air in and out of his lungs, ends up breathing out streams of bubbles instead.

Nothing fills his head but the harsh taste of chlorine, the sharp smell of gym wax, the watery, faded white of the pool floor, the crisp, blinding ivory of hospital bedsheets, the water droplets that cling to his eyelashes and drip from his hair, the sticky, warm red that covers his palms and runs down his fingertips.

Above his head, hanging upside-down, the city continues to chug along, rumbling, smoking, spitting, breathing, drowning.

Oikawa doesn’t remember getting home, doesn’t really focus on anything until he’s unlocking his front door and pushing it open.

Only then, when he feels a faint prickle of pain run up his fingers where his apartment key is digging into his palm, clutching it in the same hand that he had cut back at the library, does everything seem to snap back into place, the city rearranging itself and shaking chlorinated water from its rooftops until it rains down to the streets.

Oikawa sees Suga’s face, turning up towards the noise of the door opening from where he’s sitting on the couch, awake, barely catches the smile before it morphs into wide eyes and parted lips, until he’s straightening up on the couch and Yamaguchi comes skidding around the corner from the kitchen.

Oikawa doesn’t wait for anyone to say anything, for Kunimi to fully get in the door.

He’s walking, walking, trying to get to the bathroom before he throws up, ignores the small utterance of his name from Suga, the "Oikawa-", his expression when he swings his legs off of the couch to stand up.

The soft noises of Suga asking Kunimi something, of the front door shutting with a thud, fade into the background, fade with the click of the bathroom door, and Oikawa rips his coat off, too hot, throws his scarf to the floor, rests his elbows on chilled porcelain and lets his head hang over the sink, running the water ice-cold.

His stomach twists violently, a drop of sweat edges down the back of his neck, traces over his spine, and he can’t stop shivering, aftershocks of the absolute terror he had gone through back at the library, the panic he had shoved down until he had gotten home in an attempt to not fully break down, shuddering over his skin.

The nausea crescendoes, rises in a crushing wave, until Oikawa empties the contents of his stomach, his hands gripping the edges of the sink with white knuckles, tears burning the backs of his eyelids.

He spits bile when he’s finished, when there’s nothing more to choke up, when he’s shaking and his throat aches and his stomach is achingly empty, hollow.

Oikawa looks up in the mirror, pushes his bangs back from his face and winces at the pallid complexion, the dark circles under his eyes, wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and cups his palms under the water, rising his mouth out and splashing his face.

_"Not real,"_ he tries to tell himself, repeating the words over and over in his head until they feel real and the other things don’t.

That still doesn’t stop him from reaching for his phone, from dialing a number he’s memorized and listening to the other end of the line trill, his teeth digging into his lower lip.

A voice answers on the third ring, and Oikawa steadies himself against the sink as his body sags in relief.

"Tooru?"

His sister’s voice is annoyed, disgruntled and disoriented, and Oikawa vaguely realizes that it must be around three in the morning there, but he can’t bring himself to care.

"Hana," he breathes, willing himself not to cry.

But it’s so hard, hard to swallow past the tightening in his throat, hard to keep his voice steady, when he hears shuffling on the other side of the line, when he hears his sister ask, "Ru, what’s wrong?" in that voice she always used when she was bandaging a scrape he had gotten from falling out of yet another tree, when she was cooking dinner those nights their parents were away from home for work and he broke down in the kitchen over a bad day, when she sat in the hospital room and held his hand while the doctor told him he might not be able to play volleyball again.

Oikawa holds his breath until he’s sure he can talk normally.

"I’m fine," he says first, proud of how nonchalant he sounds, but Hana cuts him off before he can say anything else.

"Bullshit," she counters, her voice significantly more awake, louder, and Oikawa knows she must’ve moved down to the kitchen in the house she shares with her husband, Naoko-chan, because he can hear the switch being flipped on the lemon-yellow electric tea-kettle their mom had bestowed on the two as a wedding gift.

(Oikawa knows that Naoko-chan secretly loves it even though he had joked for some time about how it was a catalyst for migraines whenever he walked into the kitchen. Both because of the color and because of how loud it was.)

She doesn’t say anything else.

Oikawa sighs.

This is how it’s always been, how his sister learned to get him to talk.

He lies, she says bullshit, she waits.

He lies again ("It’s nothing, really", "I’m just tired."), and she calls bullshit and she waits.

If Oikawa wants to talk, he talks.

If he doesn’t, he doesn’t, and she doesn’t push him, just gives him space until he opens up, little by little.

But she never lets him lie to her.

It’s like pulling teeth sometimes, painful, saying the things he tries to keep in his head out loud.

But Hana’s always there, a hand on his shoulder, a warm mug pressed into his cold hands, the nickname she had given him when they were children and she couldn’t wrap her mouth around his entire name falling on his ears like the lulling hush of rain on a summer night, when the warm, damp breeze would run through his room, carrying the teasing voices of a group of school kids walking along the street outside through his window, or the unmistakable meow of the orange tabby from next door, or the faint rumble and clang of a can of coffee dropping in the vending machine just down the road.

But right now, how is he supposed to tell her what’s wrong?

He can’t tell her anything, can’t tell her about Shirabu or his ability to seemingly draw out nightmares in people, can’t tell her that he had seen her, childless and wilted and in agony in a hospital bed, that it had felt so real, so _tangible_ , that he had almost believed it was true, that he had almost believed his nephew was gone.

Oikawa’s still not entirely sure what Shirabu’s gift actually is.

The only thing he had managed to choke out to Kunimi on the way home had been, "Is there any truth in any of it?"

Kunimi’s absolute and firm, "No," had been the only thing to keep Oikawa in one piece the entire way back.

Oikawa slides down the wall across from the sink, sinks down until he’s sitting on the cold, tile floor, worries at a loose thread in the hem of his t-shirt, winding it around his index finger until his skin turns faintly purple and then letting go, bites the inside of his cheek.

There’s the faint sound of the tea-kettle whistling on Hana’s side, the clack of a teacup being set down and the rustle of what Oikawa knows is his sister’s favorite gyokuro tea, sweet, high in caffeine, expensive.

He can picture her now, silhouetted by soft, honey light, standing barefoot with her hair down, cascading dark around her shoulders and framing her delicate face with its large, brown eyes and slightly upturned nose and full lips, one hand resting lovingly, protectively over the slope of her stomach, the other spooning tea leaves into a glass for steeping.

Oikawa feels a small smile tug at his lips, thinks of the first time he had watched his sister brew tea, asking her in his curious nine-year-old voice why she always put the tea leaves in a glass instead of steeping them in a regular teapot.

"Look, Ru," she had said, pouring hot water in carefully, a metal spoon resting in the glass to absorb the heat ("So the glass won’t shatter", she had told him seriously), her fourteen-year-old hands so steady, so sophisticated in Oikawa’s opinion, and he had watched the tea leaves swirl with the water, watched the color change prettily, darkening, wisps of cloud rising from the surface and decorating their kitchen, beauty in something that seemed so simple.

Oikawa shakes himself from his memories, steadies his breathing and finally speaks, his heart rate finally, finally slowing down to normal, settling like the tea leaves in the bottom of the glass.

"I miss home," he says.

It’s true, not a lie, but not the entire truth either.

He does miss home, more than he could’ve ever imagined he could, misses the shape of his house, the soft blue-light of dawn over the high school in spring, the faces of his family and friends whenever he walked through a door, tilting up to smile at him like the reach of a flower towards the sun, the sting of sea-salt on the breeze, and the sticky summer nights spent lying on the roof of the old arcade building, stargazing and talking until the sun peeked over the horizon.

"And I had a bad day," he continues before Hana can speak. "My knee-"

Oikawa cuts off sharply. He feels bad, guilt an acrid taste in his mouth, using his knee as an excuse, but he doesn’t have a choice.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Hana asks, the tea-kettle switching off, her voice soft.

Oikawa hums noncommittally, snaps the loose thread from his t-shirt with a sharp tug, and the two of them are silent for a minute.

Oikawa knows his sister is waiting for him to speak, but he doesn’t want to lie any further to her, so he brightens his tone.

It’s not hard to do, and not because he’s used to putting up facades, not because he’s used to smiling his way through other people’s questions and burying his problems away, charming through the pain.

Hearing his sister’s voice has brought some normalcy back into his thoughts, has calmed the storm that had been threatening to rip him into pieces, screaming and howling inside his head.

"I’ll be okay," he reassures Hana, tapping out a rhythm with his fingers on his thigh. "I just need to rest."

Hana doesn’t argue with him, just hums in agreement, probably sipping her tea and leaning back against the kitchen counter, watching the streetlights outside flicker and play against the curtains draped over the small window across from the sink.

Oikawa suddenly wishes he could be there, back home, able to just walk down a couple of streets from his parents’ house to his sister’s and brother-in-law’s, spending nights there, camped out on the living room floor on the futon his sister kept just for him in one of the closets, watching crappy cartoons until four in the morning and listening to Naoko-chan snore in the next room.

He’d wake up around noon to the smell of breakfast, to the whistle of that electric tea-kettle, would wander into the small kitchen in his favorite pair of alien pajamas, kiss his sister on the cheek, tease Naoko-chan until the man leveled him with a look that spelled trouble over his glasses and "accidentally" flicked a bit of egg at him over the table.

"How’s the grand prince?" Oikawa asks, trying to sound nonchalant, the question he’s really been wanting to ask this entire time slipping out quickly, his voice surprisingly steady.

Hana laughs, a huff of air over the phone, the mood lightening.

"As much of a grand terror as ever," she answers, and Oikawa sags against the wall, the last bit of tension bleeding from his limbs.

He feels weak, his fingers trembling ever so slightly, adrenaline racing through his veins and leaving just as fast, any lingering doubt finally disappearing.

"He’s started to kick more nowadays," she continues, fondly exasperated. "I’m convinced he’s going to be a soccer player."

Oikawa scoffs.

"How do you know he’s not just practicing his spikes?" he counters teasingly, so relieved he could cry, his eyes stinging.

"Spikes?" Hana says in the same tone, laughing again. "If anything, my son is practicing his forehands and serves."

"I’m sure if he is, he’ll be even greater than his mother," Oikawa jokes, snorting when Hana makes an offended noise.

"He has a long way to go to live up to my legacy," she says confidently, unapologetically narcissistic. 

Oikawa rolls his eyes, laughing again over the phone, but doesn’t argue.

His sister had been one of the best on the tennis court both in high school and when she went to Tokyo for college. Oikawa remembers watching her matches, the long length of her braid whipping behind her, her serves just as powerful as Oikawa’s with a volleyball, just as precise and calculated.

There’s a soft knock then, a rap of knuckles on the bathroom door, and Oikawa swipes at his moist eyes quickly.

"Hey, um, sis," he says, "I should probably go now. You know, long-distance phone bills and all."

Hana hums again, waits for Oikawa to spit out any lingering thoughts, but he has nothing else to ask, to worry over, letting his head fall back to loll back against the wall.

"Get some rest," Hana says when Oikawa doesn’t offer any further words, her voice gentle and less tense now, sleep creeping back into her words.

"I will," Oikawa promises, suddenly hears another voice on the other side of the line, Naoko-chan murmuring something he can’t make out, Hana saying, "I’ll be right there, darling," away from the phone.

"I’ll talk to you later, Ru," Hana says once it sounds like Naoko-chan has wandered back to bed.

"Yeah," Oikawa agrees. And then, "Thanks."

"I’ll always listen to you, Tooru," Hana responds.

Oikawa hangs up, makes sure tears no longer stick his eyelashes together, stands up and smooths out his shirt, checks his reflection in the mirror.

He looks tired, smudges of shadows under his eyes, hair in a disarray, but there’s another knock on the door, a little louder, Suga’s voice following.

"Oikawa?" he asks, and when Oikawa opens the door, he’s standing there, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, gold eyes flickering up to Oikawa’s face quickly, relief and then worry passing in quick succession over his features.

"Oikawa-," Suga starts, and Oikawa can already hear the pleading tones of apology in his voice, can already predict what the other is going to say, and he doesn’t want him to.

It’s not Suga’s fault, it’s not anyone’s fault.

Just seeing him ignites the images of rain and blood and stillness, of a boy drained of color, pale lips and washed-out skin, silver and crimson.

Oikawa reaches out, wraps his fingers around one of Suga’s wrists, and tugs him inside the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Suga looks just as exhausted as Oikawa feels, the other boy leaning back against the bathroom door and peering up at him, face pale and drawn, his lower lip bitten until it looks raw.

"Kunimi told me-," Suga starts, eyebrows furrowed, but Oikawa runs his thumb slowly over Suga’s bottom lip and he cuts off, eyelashes fluttering.

"Oikawa, Shirabu, he-," Suga tries again, eyes large, his face screwing up with worry, with what might be anger, although Oikawa is unsure of who it’s aimed at, with more regret, but Oikawa replaces his thumb with his mouth, kissing Suga soft and slow against the door.

Suga makes a small, surprised noise, the words dying on his tongue, but he doesn’t stop Oikawa from furthering the kiss, from slotting their mouths together more firmly, angling his head, from pressing him more firmly against the surface behind him and smoothing his hands down Suga’s ribs, wrinkling his t-shirt, until his hands rest on Suga’s hips.

The kiss is more for comfort than anything else, Oikawa realizes quickly, for both of them, nothing more than a press of close-mouthed lips, but enough to slightly ease the furrow between Suga’s eyebrows.

Suga clutches the back of his shirt, shivers against him when Oikawa draws back only to press his face into the warm crook of Suga’s neck and exhale, suddenly swallowing against more tears, desperate not to cry, not now.

But he’s been holding them back for too long today, is too tired, too worn down to keep them completely at bay, and Suga stiffens when a few escape Oikawa, trembling on the edges of his eyelashes and then dropping to slide down Suga’s neck.

"Shit," Oikawa mutters under his breath, unable to stop more from following. He pulls away from Suga, wipes angrily at his eyes, starts to say, "Sorry, I-"

But Suga grabs his hand, tugs him over towards the sink with a quiet, "Come here," and then proceeds to hoist himself up onto the counter, pulling at Oikawa’s hand until Oikawa is standing between Suga’s legs, the added height bringing them face-to-face.

Suga’s heels knock against the cabinet door beneath the sink, the fingers of his free hand drifting slowly, carefully, to trace over the skin under Oikawa’s eyes, thumb smoothing over the arch of one cheekbone, and he’s not looking at him with pity, which Oikawa is more than grateful for, but he is looking at him in a way that says it’s okay to let go, for Oikawa to seek comfort.

Oikawa tries not to cry in front of others, hates the feeling it leaves him with after, the extreme sense of vulnerability, the fragility with which he’s regarded with afterwards, as if he’s made of glass and will shatter if someone gives him the wrong look or says the wrong thing.

Iwaizumi and Hana, his parents, are exceptions, have all seen Oikawa at his lowest, have all held him at some point while his shoulders shook with sobs.

But now, with Suga right here, his face open and beautiful, and his gaze holding Oikawa’s with something like understanding, as if he knows what Oikawa saw, Oikawa can’t help but lean forward, slowly, until his forehead rests on Suga’s shoulder, his hands creeping around him to curl fingers into the back of Suga’s t-shirt, can’t help but take one long, shuddering inhale before the tears finally come, fast and fierce and overwhelming.

Oikawa cries into Suga’s shoulder and Suga says nothing, only strokes his fingers through Oikawa’s hair, lets Oikawa clutch him closer, knees knocking into the sink cabinets and his waist digging into the edge of the porcelain counter.

Oikawa can hear the noises he’s making, the strangled sobs and hiccuping breaths that he tries to muffle in Suga’s t-shirt, but he’s too relieved that he’s not trying to swallow it all down still to care, to feel embarrassed.

The entire time, Suga does nothing but hold him close, never once letting go.

Oikawa stares down at the cup in his hands and feels slightly ridiculous.

He’s wrapped in the comforter on his bed, leaning back up against the windowsill, with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and his hair freshly washed, seemingly ready for bed even though it isn’t even fully evening yet.

Suga is sitting with his legs crossed farther down on the mattress, nursing his own mug of oolong and peering at Oikawa over the rim occasionally, the two of them silent.

The apartment is quiet, Kunimi and Yamaguchi having been nowhere in sight by the time Oikawa had gathered himself together and had taken a quick shower to clear his head.

He had just caught fragments of voices from the guest bedroom as he crossed the hall at Suga’s order to rest while he made tea, just the barest lilt of Yamaguchi’s tone and the sharper burst of Kunimi responding, before they had fallen silent.

Now though, the only sounds are the rumble of traffic outside his window, the nervous tap of Suga’s fingers against his cup, the delicate sound of Oikawa clearing his throat before he finally speaks.

"I’m sorry we couldn’t bring them back with us," is the first thing out of his mouth, one of the thoughts that had surfaced to the forefront of his mind under the warm spray of the shower.

Oikawa is sure that Kunimi already told Suga everything, about Shirabu telling them that if they wanted to reconsider taking Semi in, he would come with them, that he would give them two days and then meet them back in the library, between the same shelves, at the same time, but hopefully under different circumstances.

Oikawa still can’t shake the look Shirabu had given them before he had left, Semi trailing behind him, his stormy eyes sharp and glittering with resolve, but soft and sad at the same time, purples smudging the grays, like a thunderstorm on a summer night.

Suga sighs, blows steam from his mug and takes another sip, and then sets the cup down in his lap.

"You shouldn’t apologize," he answers, smiling tiredly, his mouth wavering.

He glances down and then back up, shifts a little in his position, and then continues.

"Shirabu has always been stubborn, hard-headed, even when we were kids," Suga reminisces, fondness in his voice even though his eyebrows furrow. "But he’s not unreasonable. He will listen if you have proof, if you can prove him wrong, and he will admit his fault. Logic, data, research, he relies on those things to answer many of his questions. He was constantly reading whenever we weren’t training, constantly learning and studying, even when he should’ve been sleeping. I don’t know how many times I found him asleep on the library floor."

Suga smiles a little more genuinely, tucks a stray strand of silver hair back behind his ear.

"But his heart isn’t just made up of numbers, of little bits of code. I’ve known for a long time that Shirabu feels more than any of the rest of us do."

Oikawa sits up a little straighter, readjusts his grip on his mug and gives Suga time to speak, to explain what he means.

"I don’t expect you to tell me what you saw when you touched Shirabu," Suga continues cautiously, biting at his lip again, a nervous habit. "I know it wasn’t anything good, nothing but the stuff of nightmares."

Oikawa runs a finger around the rim of his cup, avoiding Suga’s eyes and waiting for him to keep speaking. Anticipation and fear thrum through his veins, ready to finally hear an explanation for Shirabu’s ability.

"Shirabu can create illusions," Suga says after a deep breath. "He can make you see anything he wants you to, can make you believe anything he can think of."

Oikawa’s eyes flicker up in surprise, in wonder.

"It doesn’t have to be horrific or frightening. He can make beautiful illusions, worlds that you couldn’t even imagine, no matter how hard you tried."

Suga takes another sip of his tea, eyes reliving memories before they grow somber.

"But the curse is that he can also see your worst fears. Everything and anything dark that lingers in your heart, even ones that you didn’t even realize you had. It’s the first thing he sees when he touches a person. He hates it, despises what he can do. He-"

Suga stops talking suddenly, jerky and abrupt, as if he’s said too much.

"So all of that," Oikawa gets out into the silence, trying to keep his voice steady and pausing. "All of that was-"

"An illusion," Suga supplies.

Oikawa mulls over Suga’s words, the two of them falling back into silence.

"Was he okay?"

Suga’s voice is quiet, small, his gaze turned downwards, his shoulders pulled together so that he looks tiny sitting there, as if he could disappear into the bedcovers.

Oikawa sets his cup down on the table by his bed, leans forward and plucks Suga’s empty mug from his pale fingers, and then tugs on his hand, opening his nest of blankets and waiting for Suga to crawl into his lap.

Suga sits with his legs draped over Oikawa’s thigh, leaning his shoulder into Oikawa’s chest, warm and soft, his head tucked under Oikawa’s chin, the sweet traces of oolong lingering on his skin.

"He was fine," Oikawa reassures him, pressing a quick kiss to Suga’s messy hair, a second one to his ear and then a third to the corner of his eye, thinking of Shirabu’s steady stance, the fierce line of his shoulders and the burning weight of his gaze.

But then he thinks of Semi, and he wants to ask, wants to know why Kunimi regards him with such hatred, why Shirabu is so adamant about protecting him, why Suga never seemed to know about any of it until now.

All Oikawa says though is, "We’ll see him in two days," and the barest relaxation in Suga’s posture is enough to keep the questions in Oikawa’s head.

For now, they need to sleep.

For now, all they can do is wait.


	22. candy-colored wrappers and milk bread

Oikawa wakes to the low rumble of thunder in the distance, a promise for rain hovering in the heavy air.

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking drowsily, feels the wonderful weight of sleep in his limbs and the softness and warmth of his bed beneath him, sees how the sunlight from earlier has faded into gentle deep blues and plums, shadows pooling in the corners of his room as another tremor of thunder runs through the clouds outside.

This has always been one of his favorite ways to wake up, his mind surfacing from the depths of dreams and hazy memories to hear the sharp tap of rain on the windows, to feel the charge of electricity in the air, to snuggle farther down into his bed and drift between waking and sleeping as everything else sprung to life around him, the sound of his mom humming downstairs while she watered the plants, the clanks and clangs in the kitchen as his father took over breakfast, his sister’s sleepy shuffle to the bathroom and then her outraged screeches when she realized that Oikawa had used up all of her facial wash or her skin cream or whatever else he had decided he had needed the day before.

It must be around six or seven now, the hours melting away with a much-needed nap, and Oikawa feels ten times better than he had before, his mind clearer, the nausea completely gone.

The events from this morning seem far away, covered by the soft pitter-patter of rain as it starts to fall, hidden behind hours and dreams and the painkillers Oikawa had taken for the throbbing in his head, lost in the clouds and unable to enter the warm cocoon of his bed, this bubble of serenity that is smudged colors and the faint taste of oolong on his tongue and silver hair tickling his chin.

Oikawa lets his eyes drift from the empty tea mugs still stacked on his bedside table to land on Suga’s sleeping face, his cheek resting on Oikawa’s chest.

Pretty.

That’s what Oikawa had thought the first time he had really seen Suga, that night the other had come around the corner after borrowing Oikawa’s shower, barefoot and his hair still damp.

Pretty with his starlight hair and his collarbones that were shaped like wings, the graceful curves of them visible above the collar of Oikawa’s too-big t-shirt, his large eyes that shimmered gold with constellations, framed by long, black eyelashes.

But now, as Oikawa studies the parted pink lips and the tilt of his nose and the light flush of sleep on Suga’s cheeks, he can’t help but think that "pretty" is inadequate.

"Beautiful", "gorgeous", "stunning", those all fit better.

Oikawa wants to kiss him awake.

They’ve only kissed a handful of times, only had their first kiss this morning even though it seems like it happened a lifetime ago, but Oikawa wonders how Suga would react if he trailed kisses all over his face now, if he brushed his hair back from his face and pressed their lips together, gentle, languid kisses until Suga began to stir, his lashes fluttering, his body stretching lazily, the hem of yet another one of Oikawa’s borrowed t-shirts riding up to reveal pale, smooth skin.

He can almost hear the breathy sighs, can feel the softness of Suga’s skin beneath his hands and the silk of his hair against his fingers, wonders if Suga would flush cerise slowly or all at once.

Oikawa would kiss him until Suga was breathless and arched beneath him, until his pupils were blown and his fingers were grasping at Oikawa’s t-shirt to pull him closer, all traces of sleep gone, replaced with pink-kissed lips and the sweetly torturous drag of Oikawa’s teeth against a rapid pulse point and broken gasps, hands wandering down to drag cool fingers over the flat slope of a quivering stomach, to urge a shirt up, up, up, until Oikawa could suck dark marks against flushed and hot skin, leaving cloudbursts of violet along sharp hipbones, rewarded with a tug on his hair, with the stuttering jerk of hips, with a moan into the rain-filled air that held a little bit of Oikawa’s name in it as well-

Suga shifts in his sleep against Oikawa, startling him from his thoughts as he snuggles farther down into the comforter.

Mortification hits Oikawa like a ton of bricks, his entire face flushing dark red and his daydream screeching to a halt.

His bed is suddenly too small, too warm, the curled hand Suga has resting on Oikawa’s stomach too hot, too heavy, and only adding fire to the warmth pooling in his abdomen, and he moves carefully but quickly to swing his feet to the floor, wincing when cold hardwood greets him.

He had forgotten to pull on socks last night after his shower, but even though the chill is unpleasant, it isn’t unwelcome.

It helps dull the flush Oikawa can feel across his cheeks, the flush he feels all over his body because when Oikawa really blushes, it tends to spread everywhere. From his face to his neck to his shoulders and down his chest.

It’s embarrassing really.

He throws Suga’s sleeping form one last glance, trying to push the last dregs of his imagination from his mind, and then hurries to slip to the bathroom, pressing the palms of his hands to his cheeks after he locks the door behind him.

His reflection in the mirror doesn’t really do anything to quell the heat in his face.

Oikawa is happy to see that the dark circles from last night have disappeared from under his eyes, that some color has returned to his cheeks, but on the other hand, his face is bright, bright red and his eyes are glittering and dark with the stubborn, lingering daydream and Oikawa doesn’t know why he’s so flustered, so mortified.

His thoughts hadn’t even gone anywhere, had been very PG and mostly innocent, had definitely not even come close to things Oikawa has actually done in the past, stumbling to other people’s apartments after a night out, after shameless flirting and sultry looks and excessive grinding had turned into fumbling hands and sinful words whispered against ears and sinking to knees in a bathroom stall because the fifteen-minute cab ride was too long to wait.

He’s had his fair share of one-night stands, of rumpled bedsheets and waking up in the morning to an unfamiliar room, of wearing high-necked sweaters to class the next day to hide the unmistakable smudges of majorelle scattered over his collarbones and up the length of his neck, of losing himself in a stranger, washing away the smell of their perfume or their cologne the next day in the shower.

And it’s not like he’s never dated anyone. Sure, the relationships may have been mostly short-term, there being no one he ever got really serious about, but he’s not fumbling in the dark on this.

For some reason everything’s different with Suga.

Oikawa feels like he’s been thrown into something completely new, his heart beating faster than it ever has when Suga does nothing more than smile at him, harder than it has with anyone else before.

There’s a little thought in the back of Oikawa’s mind, a nagging voice that is very, very quiet, but still very, very _there_.

What scares him, what almost terrifies him with its abruptness and intensity even though Oikawa won’t admit it to himself, is that he’s completely in over his head and he’s only known Suga for three weeks, two if he doesn’t count the first week of break that Suga had disappeared for.

Two weeks and he already feels himself slipping, this far gone in someone he barely knows.

Oikawa throws himself one last, exasperated glance in the mirror, splashes his face with water from the sink, and then proceeds to take another shower, this time cold.

By some small miracle, Oikawa has organic bread flour in his pantry.

He reaches up to pull the package down from the third shelf and then closes the door softly.

The apartment is quiet, still, the rain now lashing down onto the windows and blurring everything outside into colorful smudges, streaks of ink that waver over dark asphalt and throw watery pigments over umbrellas and the backs of hands and taxi doors.

Oikawa is the only one up, the clock in his kitchen reading 8:30 p.m., the lamp turned on in the living room so that everything is bathed in a low glow, his hair still slightly damp and his phone perched on the bar counter, shuffled to play his classical music playlist.

The music is turned down low, the notes barely punctuating the air over the sounds of the storm, but Oikawa is fairly sure that’s Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata playing, a personal and quick favorite after Akaashi had introduced him to the beauty of the classics a few years ago.

Oikawa sets the package of organic bread flour down on the island and then taps his fingers over the granite, running through the list of remaining things he needs in his head.

A line of ingredients decorates his countertop in front of him, a paper pouch of dry milk, his tiny sugar bowl with the delicate blue-lace pattern, salt and yeast and a half-full jug of milk, one beige, speckled egg, a stick of butter, and now the organic bread flour.

He’s positive that’s everything he needs, knows exactly how to use all of these things, and in what amounts, to make the one thing he’s craving right now, but he still backtracks from the kitchen to his room to grab one last thing.

The door is still cracked at the same angle from Oikawa leaving earlier, but Suga has changed sleeping positions, now sprawled out on his back, taking up all of the bed with all four limbs thrown haphazardly over the mattress, and Oikawa smirks at the sight, fingers itching to take a picture to tease Suga with later, but his phone is in the kitchen so he passes up the opportunity and continues over to his desk.

The white surface is pretty well-organized, his laptop lying center and plugged into its charger, a few, glass jars of pens and pencils lined up evenly on the left side with his desk lamp, another tiny, green succulent that Oikawa had just bought right before break on the opposite side of the desk from them. There’s a few other things, some stacked notebooks and a painfully new copy of "The Martian" that Oikawa hasn’t had the chance to crack open yet, a framed photo of his high school volleyball team that Oikawa had finally found the resolve to display one bright spring day his sophomore year of college.

The desk expands upwards into a frame of shelves, most of the space on them taken up by all of Oikawa’s favorite novels, the rest holding spare notebooks, a few textbooks, a few more photos of various fond memories, his treasured Canon EOS 5D camera, and a pack of shiny, new paperclips.

But it’s the drawers in the desk that Oikawa turns his focus towards, particularly the very top one.

The contents inside when he pulls it open are just as organized, stacked and arranged with obvious care.

Oikawa peeks over his shoulder to make sure he hasn’t disturbed Suga, and then turns back to the drawer, carefully shifting a few things around.

There’s the first ever picture he had taken with his Canon, a blurry snapshot of a starry night sky in his hometown, clicked with inexperienced fifteen-year-old fingers and overwhelming excitement that made him clumsy on a muggy summer night.

Then there’s the small piece of volleyball net he had secretly cut from one of the high school nets right after graduation, sneaking in and out of the gym with sweaty palms and praying no one had noticed him slip away from the celebrating crowd of people outside.

There’s his most treasured alien keychain, the one Iwaizumi had gotten him on his seventh birthday and that he had cried over when he thought he had lost it when he was eleven before he had realized it had fallen off of his backpack in his room, lying in a corner before Oikawa snatched it up and tried not to snot all over the tiny piece of plastic.

Oikawa moves a few more things around, a few movie tickets, a folded, creased letter from his parents and sister, written in the first few weeks after he had moved, the twisted, bent paperclip that Oikawa had grabbed on second thought after throwing it in the grass that night at the pool.

He finally pulls out what he’s looking for, the folded piece of notebook paper yellowed with age and carefully kept between page twenty-two and page twenty-three in Oikawa’s beloved, dog-eared copy of "Nineteen Eighty-Four".

A sweet rush of nostalgia floods him at the sight of the book, memories of reading it countless times, of carrying it everywhere until the back cover fell off, of packing it in his backpack whenever he left home, playing out in his mind.

Oikawa hesitates a moment longer and then slips the piece of paper out, places the book back with lingering fingers, and quietly closes the drawer, tiptoeing back out of the room and shutting the door on Suga’s slow and even breaths.

It’s a recipe that’s written over the old paper, the neat, black handwriting of his grandmother carefully scrawled between the blue lines, a few stains from the kitchen, spots of oil and such, dotting the surface.

Oikawa has it memorized by heart, could recite the exact words in the exact order they’re written out in his sleep, but he still likes to have the little piece of paper with him whenever he uses the recipe, keeps the faded writing close to him, a small fragment of comfort.

Oikawa’s grandmother had given it to him several years ago, back when he used to lounge on the cool kitchen floor in her house, listening to the lazy drone of cicadas outside and his grandmother's soft humming as she whisked and rolled and baked Oikawa’s favorite treat.

Now Oikawa smooths it out on top of the island, the elegant writing painted in the bursts of color coming from outside, the shadows of the rain sliding down the windows covering the blue-lined paper like the craters on the moon, eternally grateful that even though he can barely cook pasta, he’s a professional at making his grandmother’s milk bread.

Oikawa smiles to himself, rolls the sleeves of his t-shirt up to his elbows, and reaches for a mixing bowl.

The tangzhong has mostly cooled on the stove by the time someone else in the apartment stirs and blearily makes their way into the kitchen.

Oikawa looks up from where he’s clearing some of the mess on his countertop to make space to make the dough when he hears the quiet clearing of a throat.

Yamaguchi’s curious face greets him, the other boy wavering near the back of Oikawa’s couch, his dark hair an endearing, fluffy mess, green eyes scanning over Oikawa’s flour-covered fingertips quickly.

There are sleep lines from the pillowcase on Yamaguchi’s right cheek, Oikawa sees, when he steps closer, his eyes tracking the sound of music to Oikawa’s phone and then returning to Oikawa’s face.

"Hey," Oikawa says, giving Yamaguchi what he hopes isn’t an awkward smile.

He really hasn't spent any time alone with the other boy, not in the way that he has with Suga or even Kunimi, so Oikawa’s a little unsure how to approach him.

Oikawa recollects having a similar reaction to Kunimi, this awkward first meeting that leaves his pulse beating unevenly at his throat, and he realizes belatedly that he cares how he comes across to the others. Yamaguchi, Kunimi, Shirabu, all of them are Suga’s family, the people he’s willing to go to the ends of the earth for.

From what Oikawa’s seen, Yamaguchi is fairly open and friendly, a personality that seems to match his innocent, sweet face with its smattering of freckles and dainty, upturned nose.

The other had fit in so well with Daichi and Kuroo almost immediately, gravitating towards the pair in just the first few hours that they had all known each other.

And even Kunimi seems to dote on Yamaguchi, the ink-haired, paper-pale boy enveloping him with gentle arms and gentler words whenever Yamaguchi seems to need them.

Yamaguchi shoots Oikawa an effortless smile, raises a slim hand in greeting and comes a little closer, hopping up onto one of the two barstools at the island.

"I thought everyone was still asleep," Yamaguchi says once he’s situated, the hoodie he has on one that Oikawa doesn’t recognize, a very large, very red thing that very nearly drowns Yamaguchi in the fabric, the sleeves rolled up more than once to hang at his wrists.

He remembers Daichi and Kuroo pressing a duffel bag into Yamaguchi’s arms this morning before they all left, figures they must’ve lended some of their clothes.

"I haven’t been up long," Oikawa admits, grabbing the tangzhong from the stove behind him and pouring it into a larger mixing bowl a little at a time, combining it with more flour and dry milk and all of the other necessary ingredients.

Yamaguchi hums, perches his elbows on the countertop to hoist himself up and peer into the mixing bowl, his bangs falling into his eyes, seemingly having no qualms about being alone with Oikawa, a stranger that probably knows a little too much about the reality Yamaguchi shares with the others.

"What’re you making?" Yamaguchi asks, blowing his hair out of his face with an exasperated breath, his eyebrows furrowing comically.

There’s something childlike about his facial expression, something that automatically puts Oikawa at ease, and he lets a smile curve his own mouth up, setting the empty tangzhong bowl to the side.

"Milk bread," he answers, dusting the countertop with a light cover of flour and then plopping the dough out onto it, kneading it with his hands.

"Milk bread?" Yamaguchi repeats after him, his voice soft and inquisitive, as if he’s trying to put the two words together and imagine it.

By the look on his face, emerald eyes flitting from the sticky, elastic dough to Oikawa’s gaze, and then back, Oikawa knows he’s never heard of it before.

Oikawa sighs dramatically, heart suddenly feeling much lighter than it has in days, and fixes Yamaguchi with a tragic look.

"Yet another travesty," he laments mockingly. "First Suga-chan didn’t know about aliens, and now poor Yam-chan doesn’t know about milk bread."

If Yamaguchi is taken aback by the nicknames, he doesn’t show it.

Instead, a wide, sparkling grin takes over the confusion on his face, his teeth flashing.

"I’ve only met an alien once, but I’ve never had milk bread," he answers, and Oikawa doesn’t even bat an eyelash, his hands continuing to mold the dough, a smirk edging its way onto his face.

"Nice try, Yam-chan," he says, eyes down on his work. "I see Suga-chan has already trained you to be on the dark side."

Yamaguchi’s answering laugh is loud and clear and Oikawa grins up at him when the other seems to realize that he might wake the others and slaps his hand over his mouth.

"And you’re going to love milk bread," Oikawa continues, satisfied with the dough’s consistency, shaping it to fit the oiled bowl he has sitting to the side. "Especially _my_ milk bread. I’m an expert."

Yamaguchi hums again, this time contemplatively, watches Oikawa transfer the dough from the counter to the bowl and then clean up the mess he’s made.

"If it’s so good, maybe we shouldn’t wake the others when it’s done," he suggests a moment later, propping his chin in his hands. "More for us."

Oikawa rinses his hands off in the sink, belatedly realizing that Yamaguchi hasn’t made one move to bring up any of the events from earlier today, not one mention of Shirabu or Semi, even though Kunimi had to have told him everything.

It’s a nice change, Oikawa thinks, a brief reprieve from it all, a breath of fresh air.

"Using your darkness for good," Oikawa teases easily, drying his hands and turning back around. "I approve."

His mind wanders to Suga, still curled up in his bed, ruffled sterling hair and pale wrists and long, black eyelashes, and without really thinking about it, adds, "Koushi probably needs the sleep anyway."

Too late does Oikawa hear the fondness in his tone, the slip of name. He tries not to wince in embarrassment.

Yamaguchi raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t say anything, and surely Oikawa is imagining the devilish tilt to the other’s grin, the wicked glint in his eyes.

It makes his ears burn.

Thankfully Yamaguchi hums once more and then breaks eye contact, swings himself off of the barstool and meanders over to the window by the kitchen table.

"I hope you don’t mind," he says over his shoulder, sounding much more like his usual self, a little hint of hesitation in his voice, a little sheepish, "but I kind of took over a little part of your kitchen."

Oikawa furrows his brows in confusion, and then he sees the three small pots of dark soil lined up under the window, definitely new additions to his kitchen decor.

The rain hushes against the window behind Yamaguchi, trails wet, glittering fingers down the glass, the clouds thick and dark and smudged with violet above the city.

"Kuroo and Daichi gave me some of their extra supplies", Yamaguchi hurries to explain, fiddling with the sleeves of the sweatshirt. "I mentioned that I liked gardening and they had some lavender seeds they weren’t using, so…"

He trails off, gazing down at the pots with a faraway look in his eyes, and Oikawa is quick to answer.

"I don’t mind," he assures Yamaguchi, remembers Kunimi’s admission to helping Yamaguchi with the gardens back at the facility.

By the look on Yamaguchi’s face, Oikawa doesn’t want to ask if he can also remember the colors of the flowers, doesn’t want to know because it’s either a yes or a no, and Yamaguchi suddenly looks thin, the angle of his chin as he stares down at the plants sharp and angular, a boy cut from paper and taped to a glass window streaked with rain.

At Oikawa’s words, however, Yamaguchi’s face transforms into something blinding, joyful, his grin stretching across his face, and for a moment, Oikawa expects the other to rush forward and hug him.

Yamaguchi doesn’t, just throws his plants one last pleased look and then moves to sit back down on the barstool, his cheeks flushed an excited rose.

Oikawa gets a glimpse of the back of his hoodie then and chokes a little on his own spit.

"I’d smack that," it reads in white, blocky letters, a candy-cane-striped volleyball directly underneath.

Definitely Kuroo’s sweatshirt then. It seems more his taste than Daichi’s.

"So how long until this amazing milk bread is ready?" Yamaguchi asks as Oikawa comes back around to the opposite side of the counter.

"It’ll sit for about an hour and then it’s another hour and a half after that, so they’ll be ready for after dinner," Oikawa answers, suddenly remembering that they actually need something to eat tonight besides milk bread.

He considers calling out for food and then takes a look outside and decides against it.

Even getting Pizza Orgasmica to deliver like last time seems too cruel with this storm.

Oikawa hums to himself, thinking.

"Do you cook?" Oikawa asks Yamaguchi, and the other boy wrinkles his nose.

"I’m better with plants," he responds, swinging his legs back and forth. "Nimi can literally cook anything, he’s great, but I don’t want to wake him. He just managed to fall asleep."

Yamaguchi trails off with a light flush on his cheeks, and it takes Oikawa a moment to realize that "Nimi" is Kunimi.

Oikawa bites back the teasing words that bubble up in his throat at the sight, not wanting to make assumptions.

He gestures to the living room instead, runs through the stuff he knows he has in the fridge and the pantry in his mind.

"You can put something on if you want," he tells Yamaguchi. "I’ll figure something out for dinner."

Yamaguchi has just thrown himself onto the couch and is switching through tv channels, the noise a pleasant hum in the background, when Oikawa’s phone buzzes on the bar.

He abandons the half-full box of instant rice he had been mulling over and grabs it, stepping to stand closer to the windows when he sees Iwaizumi’s number flashing on the screen.

Oikawa had been planning on calling his best friend after he had figured out what to make everyone to eat, had wanted desperately to hear Iwaizumi’s voice since he hadn’t really had the chance to see him in person between the library and now, for reassurance, for comfort, the same way he had felt with Hana.

The only reason he hadn’t called him immediately on the way home had been because of the text Iwaizumi had sent, an anchor in the midst of the crushing waves of Oikawa’s panic, dulling his desperation enough to be manageable.

But dinner can wait.

Oikawa answers quickly, presses the phone to his ear and leans against the window-frame, feet still bare, fiddling with a hole in the right sleeve of the old jacket he had thrown on earlier.

"Iwa-chan?" he asks, hating that he has to muster his voice to sound cheery and upbeat, hating that he can’t help but linger on the words from Shirabu’s illusion even now, some level of insecurity that he’s buried deep, deep down managing to still cut, draw blood.

But Iwaizumi breaks through all of that with one breath.

"Shittykawa," he all but growls over the line, and Oikawa can’t help it.

He laughs, joyous, unabashed, his chest loosening and his fingers uncurling from the tear in his jacket.

It’s the complete opposite reaction anyone would’ve had to the anger he can hear in Iwaizumi’s voice, but Oikawa can’t stop, warmth blooming through his ice-cold fingers, the neon lights outside his windows suddenly burning a little bit brighter through the blur of rain.

There’s stunned silence on Iwaizmu’s end of the phone call, but he quickly regains his ability to speak, voice gruff and annoyed.

"Are you drunk?" he asks, trying to put reason to Oikawa’s pleased giggles.

"Sorry, Iwa-chan," Oikawa tries to apologize over the lemonsoda fizz running through his veins, tracing patterns on the windowpane as his laughter slowly tapers out, leaving his limbs relaxed and his movements languid. "I just really love you."

There’s another, much more shocked pause.

"Right, you’re drunk," Iwaizumi mutters finally, voice rough with embarrassment, and Oikawa doesn’t even try to correct him, doesn’t know how else to explain how he feels hearing his best friend’s voice.

Iwaizumi sighs at Oikawa’s hum.

"Are you at home?" he asks him, another small sigh when Oikawa responds with a cheerful "Affirmative."

"Kay, well I’m going to call you back in the morning so keep your fucking phone turned on," Iwaizumi says. "We’re going to have a long talk about everything."

Oikawa is too relieved to be too worried by what Iwaizumi means by "everything", but he still can’t resist from asking, "What’d ya mean?"

"Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about," Iwaizumi retorts, his voice momentarily fading from the call and then bleeding back in, probably switching the phone to his other ear while he types away on his laptop or washes the dishes or something. "To just name one thing - I have a whole fucking list - you haven’t practiced at all during break, Tooru. And don’t try to lie to me and say you have because I called Suguru - God knows he’s there almost as often as you are - and he said he hasn’t seen you once since break started."

Oikawa doesn’t answer, silently cursing Daishou in his head, before Iwaizumi is talking again.

"That’s _abnormal_ , Tooru," he says, sounding slightly disturbed. "It’s not normal."

"That’s what abnormal means, Iwa-chan," Oikawa can’t help but goad snarkily, sing-songing the words, laughing again at Iwaizumi’s, "Fuck you."

Iwaizumi sighs a second after, says, "I will break into your apartment tomorrow if you don’t talk to me," sounding one-hundred percent serious and determined, and then, before Oikawa has the chance to respond, tells him, "Drink some water and go to bed before you hurt yourself," hanging up right after.

Oikawa huffs out an amused laugh at his now-dark phone screen, taps more patterns out against the window, watching the pedestrians down below on the sidewalk avoid puddles and grip umbrellas tighter to them as the rain continues to darken the concrete and glisten off steel and glass, smudging colors like smears of bright lipstick.

And like clockwork, there’s a familiar knock on Oikawa’s front door, barely a minute after Iwaizumi hung up.

Oikawa’s smile only gets wider, and he hums under his breath as he wanders over, Yamaguchi watching from the couch.

"Evening, Mrs. William," Oikawa greets politely as soon as he swings the door open, his next door neighbor, a small, elderly woman with snow-white hair that falls to her shoulders and piercing green eyes, standing out in the hall in a pair of tasteful house slippers.

She’s wrapped in a dark blue throw, her cellphone pressed to her ear, and as Oikawa stands there, she talks to the person on the other end of the line, giving Oikawa a friendly smile and a nod.

"He’s here, Hajime," she reassures Iwaizumi. "I’m looking at him."

Oikawa’s normally annoyed whenever Iwaizumi pulls this, sending his poor neighbor over to Oikawa’s apartment to make sure Oikawa isn’t lying about being home whenever Iwaizumi can’t make the trip himself, but today he can’t help but roll his eyes good-naturedly.

How Iwaizumi managed to get his neighbor’s phone number without Oikawa noticing is beyond him.

Mrs. William shares an exasperated look with him as she listens to whatever else Iwaizumi is saying, smiling sweetly when she speaks next.

"It’s no problem, dear, uh-huh, goodnight to you too."

Oikawa leans against the doorframe when she hangs up, sighing dramatically.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. William," he says, the same words every time, but she waves him off with a wrinkled hand, turning to go back to her apartment.

"It’s perfectly fine, Tooru," she tells him over her shoulder. "I think it’s sweet."

"Do you want to come in for tea?" Oikawa calls to her retreating figure, smiling fondly, and figuring he can explain Yamaguchi and whoever else may come into the living room as friends over for the night.

But Mrs. William only waves him off again, turning the knob to her front door.

"Thank you, dear, but I happened to be right in the middle of a rather thrilling movie, you know, that one with the elves and the wizards and those ugly monsters…"

She trails off, looking at Oikawa expectantly, paused between the hallway and her front door.

"The Hobbit?" Oikawa guesses, thinking about the latest movies that have come out, and Mrs. William nods.

"That’s the one," she tells him. "And there’s a rather handsome, strong-looking man who’s just entered the picture, so I’ll be turning in for today."

Oikawa smiles again, chuckling quietly, and nods, waving her off.

"See you next time, Mrs. William," he tells her, listening to her goodnight and then the quiet click of her door.

Oikawa taps out a quick message to Iwaizumi, doesn’t have to wait more than ten seconds before his phone buzzes with a reply.

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**GO TO SLEEP AND STOP TELLING ME YOU LOVE ME**

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**Also I’m coming over tomorrow… This conversation needs to take place face-to-face so I can punch you if I need to**

Oikawa scoffs but can’t help but feel pleased, the thought of finally seeing his best friend after what feels like forever settling in his chest warmly. Even if Iwaizumi will probably end up punching him at some point.

Another text dings in.

**To: Earthling babe <3**

**From: Iwa-chan(** ง **•̀_•́)** ง

**But also because Akaashi made too much fried rice and he wants me to bring you some and you never told me if you wanted any or not… dumbass**

Oikawa goes to reply, but his phone chooses to die at that moment, the battery drained.

He sighs in irritation, makes a mental note to charge it before he goes to sleep, and then throws Yamaguchi a look, the other boy having gone back to watching the tv, blue light playing over his features, his feet tucked up under him in the armchair.

Oikawa has some time to kill before he needs to check on the milk bread, and he needs to make something for dinner, but he wanders over to the couch, throws himself down and stretches his legs out over the armrest.

It feels nice to relax, the familiar warmth and softness of his sofa enveloping him.

Yamaguchi continues to watch whatever he’s put on, an old episode of some tv series Oikawa vaguely recognizes, and Oikawa lets his eyes flutter closed, listening to the drum of rain and snuggling farther into his jacket.

This is what they need, Oikawa thinks.

This is what they all need desperately, especially since the last few days have been complete and utter hell.

He almost can’t wrap his mind around the fact that it’s only been three weeks since Suga crashed into his life, less than that for the others.

It feels like he’s known them for a lifetime.

Oikawa furrows his brow, thinking, wavering in and out of listening to the tv.

"Crashed" doesn’t exactly fit.

Suga had crept into Oikawa’s life, quietly, cautiously, a chance encounter all because Oikawa had forgotten to close his windows.

The rest of them, Kunimi and Yamaguchi and Shirabu and Semi, had all exploded into existence, a flurry of ink-black feathers and wisps of shadows and glitters of antimatter and amethyst shimmers of illusions.

But Suga had come in softly, gently, had left Oikawa with a few words on a scrap of paper and then returned with purple-bruised knuckles and a heartbreaking tenacity to do things on his own, an urge Oikawa had tried to dissipate into the steam rising from bathwater, his own fingers curled around knuckles that bloomed violets.

Three weeks.

It doesn’t seem real, doesn’t seem logical.

How has it only been three weeks?

Oikawa shakes the question from his mind in favor of letting his muscles go lax, his glasses digging painfully into the side of his face where it’s pressed down into the couch cushion, debating whether he should try to make soup for dinner or attempt something a little more complex.

Then he remembers Daichi packing up the leftover eggs and bacon from this morning for them, along with a stack of pancakes, and silently blesses the man for his kindness.

With nothing left to worry about at the moment, Oikawa’s mind wanders to Iwaizumi and his promise to visit tomorrow.

Yamaguchi’ll probably have to spend some time over at Kuroo and Daichi’s again, just to avoid unwanted questions, but he doesn’t think any of them will mind.

It would probably be best if Suga and Kunimi also went with him, just to eliminate any possible hitches. Oikawa can tell Iwaizumi that they’re out searching for a place to rent.

As for his own behavior…

Oikawa knows it’s "abnormal" as Iwaizumi puts it.

If he hadn’t been so busy these last three weeks with dealing with the supernatural, Oikawa would’ve probably been spending most of his time between practicing at the school gym, bugging Iwaizumi out of his mind with impromptu visits and random phone calls at odd hours of the morning, wandering the city with his camera to add to his portfolio that’s due before graduation, and lazing about at home, watching his entire collection of sci-fi movies in old sweatpants and with a pint of ice-cream tucked under his arm, eventually ending up having a snap chat war with Makki and Mattsun and ultimately convincing them to come over to binge all of the seasons of The Walking Dead with him.

Of course, none of that has happened.

Oikawa aches to practice, to see his friends, knows that both will eventually happen once practice and school start back up, wonders how he’s going to manage returning to his normal routine, being thrown back into his own life of attending classes and late-night practices after everything that’s happened.

Once more, Oikawa shakes his thoughts from his head.

He’ll deal with that when it comes.

Oikawa sighs, rolls over onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

He lets his mind go blank, paints over all of his thoughts with washes of tea rose until his eyelids start to feel heavy.

"Yam-chan," Oikawa calls out quietly, stretching his arms over his head, struggling to stay awake, "do you mind having breakfast for dinner?"

"I don’t, I’m starving."

Oikawa sits straight up at the sound of Suga’s voice, his glasses almost slipping off of his face in the process.

He pushes them back up quickly, resists the urge to check if his hair is an unruly mess, hoping it’s not.

Suga hovers near the front of the living room, his outline made fuzzy by the glow from the tv screen.

His hair seems to shine in the lighting, adorably ruffled, a few locks sticking up in odd directions, quicksilver against the pale curve of his face.

Oikawa makes eye contact with him across the room, tries not to let his eyes drag down over the clothes Suga is wearing, _Oikawa’s_ clothes, and fails, briefly catching a large t-shirt and a loose pair of sleep shorts that hang mid-thigh and long socks that Oikawa doesn’t even remember owning, some gray, wool-knit things that may or may not be his sister’s, accidentally packed in with his things the last time he visited home.

They hit Suga just above the knees, and Oikawa doesn’t really feel sleepy anymore, his mouth running dry and his blood running hot, bringing clouds of a flush to his cheeks.

It’s not fair, how affected he is when Suga is just _standing_ there, drowsy and blinking at him with large, gold eyes.

Yamaguchi clears his throat from the armchair suddenly, and Oikawa realizes he hasn’t said anything back, is just sitting and staring, and God, he wishes his face didn’t feel so warm.

A vague sense of deja vu settles over Oikawa’s head. Maybe he should stop giving Suga thigh-high socks to wear, save himself the embarrassment.

"Breakfast for dinner sounds great," Yamaguchi interjects cheerily into the awkward quiet, lifting himself out of the armchair and stretching. "I’m going to go check on Kunimi and use the bathroom first."

Neither Suga or Oikawa say anything as he heads that way, but Yamaguchi stops next to Suga before he leaves, bends forward to say something quietly in his ear.

Suga flushes, shoots Yamaguchi a look, but the other boy is gone before anything else can happen, and Oikawa suddenly feels self-conscious, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing out the window.

When he glances back, after he hears the guest bedroom door close down the hallway, Suga is still watching him, wavering as if he isn’t sure if he should come farther into the living room or not.

He looks like he’s struggling with something, biting down onto his lower lip, but whatever decision he’s making is quickly resolved because he jerks himself away from the entrance to the hallway, walks across the living room floor, his footsteps as soft as ever, until Oikawa almost thinks he’s going to sit in his lap, his breath catching in his throat.

But Suga changes course last minute, plops down onto the cushion next to him and curls his legs up to sit criss-cross.

Oikawa breathes a small inward sigh of relief, his heart thudding in his chest.

For a moment it’s silent, Oikawa struggling with what to do or say next, his own imagined tension hanging heavy in the air, his senses overtaken by the small brush of Suga’s knee against his thigh, the warmth he can feel radiating off of the other, the honey-scent of his hair.

Just like earlier, when he had first woken up, Oikawa feels too hot, too hyperaware of every breath Suga takes, of the long glance Suga throws his way, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

And again, Oikawa wonders at the strong sense of want he feels for the other, the automatic gravitational pull, as if he’s orbiting around a star.

Three weeks.

Should he say something? Should he do something?

Is kissing just something they do now, whenever they see each other?

Suga yanks him from his thoughts when he leans over to rest his head on Oikawa’s shoulder, and Oikawa glances down quickly, meets Suga’s gaze tilted up towards him, his expression nothing like what Oikawa had been expecting.

It’s playful, teasing, eyes narrowed, lips tilting up into what looks like a smirk.

"Cat got your tongue?" Suga asks, a little too innocently to be taken as such, but Oikawa’s brain is still trying to catch up, so all he manages to garble out is, "What?"

Suga tilts his face up more, his cheek warm on Oikawa’s shoulder, and if Oikawa were to lean down the barest bit, they’d practically be nose-to-nose.

"You usually have something to say," Suga quips, eyes lit up with his words. "Is there a reason you’re so quiet?"

Finally, and Oikawa thanks the stars for this, his brain seems to jumpstart at the words, his surprise over what seems to be Suga lightly flirting with him turning into the slow, steady confidence Oikawa’s familiar with.

This, the light, playful air of it all, the teasing, the batted eyelashes, the thin layer of a flush dusting Suga’s cheeks at their closeness, this Oikawa can do.

He lets a smirk curve his mouth, the one he usually throws to the girls that crowd in the bleachers of the university gym whenever there’s a home game.

"Should there be?" Oikawa counters, leaning closer, daring to let the tips of his fingers just barely brush over the bare skin of one of Suga’s thighs.

Suga’s grin only widens, teeth flashing, mischief written in every line of his body, in the curve of his shoulders as he manages to tilt farther into Oikawa without actually touching him.

"Depends," he answers, his voice a little over a murmur, breath fanning out over Oikawa’s lips.

It sends a tremor down Oikawa’s spine and they’re so close, close enough for Oikawa to count each and every black fleck in Suga’s honey eyes, like asteroids in a sea of stars.

But Suga is suddenly gone as fast as he came, leaving Oikawa sputtering and cold where his warmth has disappeared from the couch, the other boy getting to his feet and trying to stifle a snicker as he moves to the kitchen.

Oikawa gapes at Suga’s retreating figure and then recovers, pushing himself up and following quickly, his steps light, amusement fizzing in his chest, unable to keep the grin off of his own face.

_"Two can play at that game."_

Oikawa has his arms wrapped around Suga’s waist before the other can comprehend what’s happening, pulls him flush back against his chest in one move, and Suga makes a sharp noise of surprise, craning his head back to narrow his eyes up at Oikawa a moment later, no words escaping his mouth even though it opens and closes once.

Oikawa doesn’t apologize, just pitches forward so his lips are near Suga’s ear.

"Cat got your tongue?" he murmurs into the warm space between the slope of Suga’s neck and the wing of his shoulder, his voice pitched lower, softer.

Revenge is sweet. Oikawa grazes his teeth over the curve of Suga’s ear gently, his smirk only widening at Suga’s sharp intake of breath, the blush that crawls over the back of his neck.

"Hmm, Suga-chan?" Oikawa drawls, pressing his victorious grin into the nape of Suga’s neck and then pulling back an inch or so to press a lazy kiss there instead, lingering to nuzzle into Suga’s hair when he gets a small tremor in response.

Oikawa must look annoyingly arrogant when Suga squirms to turn around to face him and evade more teasing because the shorter boy only rolls his eyes at him, pinches him in the side even though his burning ears belie his attempt to brush off how much of an effect Oikawa’s had.

"You’re ridiculous," he tells him, mock-serious, his face dead-pan.

"But you lo-," Oikawa automatically starts to retort pettishly, wincing at what he knows is going to be a bruise under his fifth rib on his right side, before the words catch up to his brain before they leave his mouth.

_But you love me anyway._

He clamps down on them, resorts to sticking his tongue out at Suga instead, and is secretly pleased when the other can’t help but laugh, highlighted by a backdrop of rain pouring down windows and soft kitchen light that turns the tips of his sterling hair gold.

The shutting of a door somewhere in the apartment breaks the air and Suga only pinches him again before disentangling himself, ignoring Oikawa’s whine.

"Rude, Suga-chan. You’re so cruel to me."

"Who is?"

Yamaguchi’s voice floats back into the living room, his hands full of what looks like a million colorful candy wrappers when Oikawa turns towards him.

"Suga-chan is," Oikawa repeats. "He uses his dark powers only for evil."

He pauses, furrows his nose at what he’s realizing are all lollipop wrappers in Yamaguchi’s hands when the other passes him on the way to the kitchen.

"And are all of those…," he adds, trailing off into a question.

"I guess Suga doesn’t get any milk bread then," Yamaguchi plays along, dumping the wrappers into the trash in a flurry of multicolors. "And yeah, they’re Kunimi’s. I just found out he was hiding the evidence under the bed."

Suga snorts from near the stove, Yamaguchi’s face faintly exasperated but his mouth twitching with a soft grin.

"Where is he getting them?" Oikawa asks, bewildered. "I never buy candy when I go grocery shopping."

"All he said when I asked him was something about someone named Makki and some 'stash' he had left him. He was half-asleep when he said that, so I might be wrong," Yamaguchi explains, looking as confused as Oikawa feels.

"Okay," is all Oikawa has to say to that, still very confused, but for different reasons now.

He’ll have to have a talk with Makki later because at the rate Kunimi is eating lollipops, apparently in secret, his teeth are going to fall out.

"So, dinner?" Yamaguchi asks, opening the fridge to pull out the eggs and bacon from Kuroo and Daichi’s.

"And movies," Oikawa adds spontaneously, deciding that they need an impromptu movie marathon to go with the pancakes.

"Is Kunimi-," Suga starts, aiming what sounds like a question towards Yamaguchi, but the other quickly shakes his head, turns serious, the fridge door closing behind him as he sets everything on the counter.

"Let him sleep," he says, no room for argument in his tone, viridescent eyes focused down on the tupperware. "We can all talk in the morning."

For a split second, Oikawa thinks that Suga is going to argue, his eyes still on Yamaguchi, but he ends up not saying anything else, just moves to help Yamaguchi unpack the food onto some plates that Oikawa pulls from the cabinets.

Through the window, Oikawa watches the lights in Crow’s Coffee dim and then turn off completely, the coffeeshop closing for the night.

The rain hasn’t let up any, just keeps coming down as Yamaguchi and Suga heat up the leftovers, as Oikawa checks his milk bread and finishes the last touches to them before finally sticking them in the oven to bake.

It’s comfortable and soothing, the apartment warm and the sweet smell of the milk bread baking weaving throughout the rooms, and when they’ve finally eaten and are full and content, Oikawa pushes everyone to the living room for movies, shutting his curtains and turning off the lights.

The tv throws everyone into pale blue light and then splashes them with bright colors, like explosions of gold, splatters of hot pink, waves of peach.

He has to get up barely fifteen minutes into the first movie, a Studio Ghibli one that Yamaguchi had picked out, to take the milk bread out of the oven so it can cool, and he pauses in the kitchen, can’t help but smile softly down at his work, knows that his grandmother would be proud.

The world feels stable, steady, raindrops clinging to roof edges outside and pattering against the city, the clouds edged in the hues below them, candy colors, bright and luminescent and burning, and Oikawa feels warm, especially when he returns to the couch, Suga snuggling into his side as if they’ve been doing this for years, fitting like puzzle pieces, his hair tickling Oikawa’s chin, the fingers of his right hand drawing nonsense patterns into Oikawa’s thigh.

At one point, Yamaguchi shifts on Oikawa’s other side to rest his head on Oikawa’s leg, his own legs dangling over the armrest, feet knocking into the armchair, and Suga only huffs a quiet laugh into Oikawa’s shoulder at his startled expression before he relaxes.

It’s when Oikawa is nearly dozing off again, his head resting on Suga’s, Yamaguchi still watching the tv screen with wide eyes, that he remembers that the milk bread must be cool by now.

He debates between getting up and disturbing the other two or waiting to let them taste it in the morning, his thoughts pleasantly cloudy, slow and drowsy.

There’s a low rumble of thunder outside, and Oikawa sinks farther into the couch, figures that his milk bread will taste just as good after they’ve slept, ready to drift off then and there, no matter how bad of a crick he’ll have in his neck in the morning.

He almost disregards the knocking on his door as part of a dream.

That is until Suga shifts, leaning up and away from Oikawa and nudging him.

"Oikawa," he says, and Oikawa is immediately awake, Yamaguchi sitting up as well, eyeing the door with the others.

"Who-," Oikawa starts, cuts off as another knock comes.

He gets up, makes his way over to the door, the only thing he can think about being his dead phone and the possibility that Iwaizumi had tried to call him again.

But Iwaizumi wouldn’t send Mrs. William over again, not at this time.

Oikawa presses his eye up to the peephole, almost chokes on his spit when he sees who it is.

He rocks back onto his heels, the anticipation that had been turning his stomach seconds before fading into something that's equal parts annoyed and bewildered.

"Oikawa?" Suga asks, and Oikawa half-turns to find both him and Yamaguchi on their feet.

"It’s okay, it’s just-," Oikawa starts to say, and stops, torn between calling the person a friend or actually saying his name, and then decides against it.

"Just go back there for a little bit," he tells them, motioning towards the bedrooms, and Yamaguchi hesitates before nodding, disappearing down the hallway, most likely to wake Kunimi.

Suga lingers, obviously worried, but Oikawa throws him a reassuring smile.

"Go, it’s fine, it’s just a friend," Oikawa says, even though it mildly pains him to use the word. 

He shrugs off the feeling as soon as Suga throws him one last glance before leaving, takes a deep breath, pastes on his most charming smile, and opens the door, curiosity and irritation burning under his skin.

"Ushiwaka," Oikawa says, keeping his voice level, polite, but edged with bite. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"


	23. washes of peach and sea salt

Ushijima looks almost as uncomfortable as Oikawa feels.

The police officer seems too big for Oikawa’s kitchen, his broad shoulders no longer clad in his uniform, but instead hidden under a simple gray t-shirt combined with a pair of dark-wash jeans.

He’s standing by the oven, close to Oikawa’s milk bread, and he keeps throwing it furtive glances, as if he wants to ask if Oikawa actually made it, or if he bought it from one of the Japanese bakeries in Lower Manhattan.

As it is, both of them are painfully silent.

Oikawa can’t quite remember why he had felt inclined to invite Ushijima inside in the first place.

Maybe it’s because Ushijima is soaked through, his hair made darker by the rain and plastered to his forehead, his clothes sticking to every line and curve of his body.

It runs in rivulets down his face, over his neck, drips from the tips of his fingers and leaves mini-explosions of translucent fireworks on Oikawa’s floors.

The police officer had stumbled over his words when Oikawa had opened the door, had raised a plastic bag in his left hand while he tried to say, "Akaashi" and "fried rice" and "just got off of my shift".

It had been Oikawa who had asked for Ushijima to move to the kitchen instead of leaving him to drip water all over the front entrance, prodding at him to remove his shoes and peel off his coat. The kitchen is the warmest room in the entire apartment, and Ushijima’s teeth are still chattering so hard Oikawa’s sure they’re going to crack.

The bathroom technically would’ve been the best option, but not with the other three hiding on that side of the apartment. Oikawa hopes Ushijima doesn’t notice.

Oikawa sets the bag of food down on the island, fixes Ushijima with a look.

"Stay there, I’m going to grab a towel," he tells him, walking backwards.

He glances down towards Ushijima’s feet, sees how the puddle of water around him is steadily growing, inching out over Oikawa’s hardwood floors, and sighs.

"Or maybe three," he mutters to himself, turning to hurry to the linen closet by the bathroom.

Oikawa’s brain buzzes on the short trip, tries to remember if Iwaizumi had ever mentioned sending Ushijima over with the food and concludes quickly that no, he hadn’t.

No, he had said that _he_ had been going to bring over the fried rice tomorrow, when he came by to have his "talk" with Oikawa.

Oikawa frowns, grabs three of the fluffiest towels he owns, and then decides that he’ll have time to call Iwaizumi back and question him about it after he gets Ushijima out of his apartment.

Yamaguchi and Kunimi are nowhere in sight down the hall, the door to the guest bedroom firmly shut, but as Oikawa turns to return to the disaster in his kitchen, his own bedroom door cracks open, Suga’s head popping out quickly.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, his voice small and tinged with worry, his eyebrows furrowing in the center of his forehead as his eyes flick towards the towels in Oikawa’s arms, teeth digging into his lower lip with enough force that Oikawa’s sure he’ll cut himself if he doesn’t stop.

The room is dark behind him, highlighting his face and his shoulders, his hair a smudge of silver against the shadowy backdrop and the faint, watery glint of Oikawa’s window in the background.

"It’s fine, Suga-chan," Oikawa half-whispers, trying to keep his voice upbeat and quiet at the same time, swallowing past the sudden knot in his throat at the sight of Suga’s expression.

There’s a change there that Oikawa hasn’t noticed until now, an infinitesimal shift in those copper eyes that teeters towards the edge of something dark.

Oikawa thinks of the boy in the alley, thinks about Shirabu and Semi and the secrets they bring with them, thinks about the unending list of questions that none of them can answer, the lost memories, the missing boys, the betrayal of the people who raised them, the feeling of not knowing what happens next, of never knowing what is going to happen next.

He sees all of that in Suga’s eyes now, standing here in the darkened hallway.

"It’s fine," Oikawa repeats, although this time, he isn’t entirely sure that he’s just talking about Ushijima.

Suga stares at him for a second longer, and then it’s as if someone’s cut the strings wrapped around his wrists and his ankles, tied around his neck, because his shoulders loosen and his mouth relaxes, his lower lip bruised a dark garnet.

Oikawa waits until he can see the fear leave his eyes, until they seem to lighten again.

When it does, when Suga leans against the doorframe and blows out a little sigh, Oikawa’s almost caught unawares by the sudden bloom of feeling in his chest, the rush of absolute tenderness that envelops him.

It’s new and startling and so very, very bright, and, as Oikawa stands there, barefoot, in old, ratty pajamas, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, with an armful of towels, he gets another tiny inkling of just how badly he wants to be near Suga, how much he wants to hold him and listen to him laugh and _protect_ him.

It feels like looking at the ocean, standing on the shore and staring out at that endless expanse of blue, or looking up at the stars when the sky is at its clearest, suddenly reminded of how small everything else is, how small Oikawa is, stuck between the ground and infinity.

His heart leaps in his chest.

Suga seems to notice Oikawa’s stunned silence and he looks at him inquisitively, cocking his head a little to the side, a little bit of his silver hair falling into his eyes.

"What?" he asks, still keeping his voice at a hush, honestly confused, brushing back his bangs with a delicate flick of his wrist, but there’s no way Oikawa’s going to blurt out what he’s thinking at the moment, his ears burning just considering it.

"Nothing," Oikawa answers quickly, clearing his throat.

He starts back towards the kitchen, suddenly afraid that Suga will see it in his eyes, will see the lapis of the ocean and the glitter of the stars.

"Who is it?" Suga whispers before Oikawa can fully leave, and Oikawa hesitates, his grip tightening around the towels, keeps his face turned away when he finally answers, just able to see the edge of Ushijima’s shoulder from where he’s standing.

"Ushijima."

The name feels weird on his tongue, heavy and nostalgic, brings back memories from his first years in New York City, back when he was still nursing old wounds, still horribly lost.

Back when he had seen Ushijima spike for the first time at their first practice, had seen a flash of black hair and cerulean eyes like an apparition from across the court, and had thought, _"Please, God, not again."_

Back before "Ushiwaka" had become a way to cope.

Suga is quiet, but then he makes a small noise of recognition.

"The police officer?" he asks, and Oikawa shakes his thoughts from his head, nods, doesn’t notice Suga slipping completely out of his bedroom and shutting the door until the other is standing next to him.

"Suga-"

Oikawa’s protest is a second too late.

Suga is already crossing the living room, still in his pajamas, and Oikawa hurries to follow, cursing under his breath and fumbling the towels in his arms.

Ushijima looks up as the two of them come back into sight, his olive eyes widening slightly when they land on Suga, something Oikawa doesn’t like at all crossing over his face when his gaze falls on the oversized t-shirt and the shorts and those damned knee-high socks.

Oikawa makes a mental note to burn them the first chance he gets.

Right now though, Oikawa’s first instinct is to step smoothly in between the two, shoving the towels at Ushijima’s chest.

"Here," he tries not to grit out between his teeth, keeping a polite smile on his face even as irritation prickles hot and sharp under his skin when Ushijima has to noticeably tear his gaze away from Suga.

"Thank you," he says, formal and sincere, and Oikawa bites the inside of his cheek, drops a spare towel to the ground to soak up some of the mess.

Suga’s eyes are wide at Ushijima’s appearance, watching drops of water roll down the other’s face from his hair, but it’s Ushijima who speaks first, wrapping a towel around his neck and using the other one to wipe down his bare arms.

"Futakuchi," he starts, the notes of an apology interwoven through his voice, Suga blinking at him, "I hope I did not wake you."

Oikawa tries to keep his mouth from dropping open when he looks up and sees the light flush that barely covers the tops of Ushijima’s cheekbones, so out of place on the cop’s strong face.

He’s simultaneously dumbstruck and peeved, waiting for Ushijima to say the same thing to him.

Ushijima doesn’t.

Oikawa can almost feel his face twitch with a scowl, but he keeps it in check, just barely.

"Oh, no, don’t worry," Suga is saying as Oikawa finishes wiping up the floor and tosses the towel to a corner of the kitchen. "I was still up."

His voice is kind, soft, and Ushijima’s flush only deepens, the cop now patting at his shirt, although it seems to have avoided most of the damage thanks to his coat.

"I apologize for the mess," Ushijima says next, this time aiming the words at Oikawa and running the towel he has around his neck through his hair.

Oikawa gives him what feels like a very tight-lipped smile, eyeing the pull and stretch of muscle in Ushijima’s bicep with narrowed eyes as the cop scatters water droplets from his hair, and then wonders stupidly whether Suga is more attracted to brawn or toned.

He tosses the idea away quickly, grimaces inwardly at himself and straightens his spine.

This is stupid.

He’s Oikawa freaking Tooru.

And- more importantly- _he’s_ the one who’s kissed Suga, who’s made him laugh and who’s slept next to him and who’s held him while he cried.

He’s the one who knows that Suga can’t drink coffee but likes warm milk with cinnamon and honey, who knows that Suga murmurs in his sleep, just barely, like he’s trying to speak his dreams out loud, who knows that Suga bites his lower lip when he’s nervous and gets cold easily and has the most beautiful smile, especially when he’s trying to hide it and the corners of his eyes crinkle with the effort.

Kunimi had been right when he’d said that Oikawa didn’t really know Suga, back in that sliver of alley space with the rain thundering down on the tops of their heads and Kunimi’s mouth twisted with fury, with grief, with panic.

There’s still so much that Oikawa doesn’t know, so much he wants to find out.

But _he’s_ the one who’s by Suga’s side right now, waiting for the day when he doesn’t have any more questions, when he knows every quirk, every habit, every beauty mark.

_Not_ Ushijima.

Almost as if Suga is able to hear his thoughts, the other glances his way, meeting Oikawa’s eyes, and flashes him a small smile, just a quick upturn of his lips, before he’s looking back to their guest.

And just like that, Oikawa can feel himself relax a little.

He also suddenly really wants Ushijima to leave so he can push Suga up against one of the countertops and find out what makes the other’s knees shake, wants to run his hands down the curve of Suga’s bare legs.

The urge is sudden, strong, almost "more" than the sleep-addled fantasies from earlier, more tangible now that he’s fully awake.

Oikawa curls his fingers into fists by his side and sidesteps Ushijima to reach the sink, pulling a glass down from the cabinet and filling it, hoping the sudden flush in his cheeks isn’t as bad as it feels.

Everything- Ushijima, having Suga back so soon after losing him, the odd stillness that time has seemed to have taken on, everyone waiting with their breaths held for something to happen in two days- it’s all mixing into something warped and jarring, a million events wrapped up into the span of one day.

It’s throwing Oikawa off his edge.

He feels almost stretched too thin, the last twenty-four hours a complete whirlwind of panic, of joy, of too many emotions for Oikawa to even consider naming all of them, their colors splattered over the inside of his ribcage and painting him inside out.

And now a cop is in his kitchen, with two runaways hiding in his guest bedroom and the third one right in front of him.

Oikawa feels like he’s fluctuating wildly between emotions and he needs something to ground him, to yank him back down to Earth.

He thinks of Iwaizumi coming to visit tomorrow, sips the water in his glass, and scratches at a mark in his countertop with a fingernail, relaxes a little bit more, waits for his face to grow less warm even though it’s like listening to nails on a chalkboard as Ushijima continues to make conversation with Suga from behind him.

Seeing Iwaizumi will be stabilizing, will bring some order to Oikawa’s thoughts. It always has.

Ushijima is saying something about a cat, most likely Hamlet, Oikawa catching the tail-end of his sentence, when he turns back around, leans his hip against the countertop and fixes a glare towards the back of Ushijima’s head, wondering if he can feel the burning weight of it.

But he’s distracted when Suga catches his eye again and flicks his own gaze towards Ushijima and then back to Oikawa, a silent message, one of his hands twitching at his side just barely.

Oikawa frowns, lowers his glass from his mouth, shaking his head at Suga in confusion from behind Ushijima’s back, his previous thoughts suddenly gone and his body on alert.

It’s almost an instinct now, his senses heightening whenever the littlest thing seems off, the tightening of his muscles and the clear clarity that fills his head as easy as breathing.

Ushijima is finishing his sentence about, as Oikawa had guessed, Hamlet, and it’s the longest Oikawa’s really ever heard the other talk in one go, but Oikawa is more focused on what Suga is trying to hint at.

Suga jerks his head just barely towards the living room, makes another surreptitious gesture towards Ushijima that looks like he’s asking Oikawa to invite the cop to sit down, and Oikawa hesitates for another second, frowning at the thought of letting Ushijima stay over any longer than he has to.

But Suga must have a reason, Oikawa argues with himself, so he pushes off of the counter languidly, his brain tuning back into the conversation fully.

"It was very kind of you to offer to bring the food over," Suga is saying, Ushijima finally finished drying off even though Oikawa can see rain still sticking to the hair at the back of his neck, still keeping his jeans form-fitted to the wings of his hipbones, plastering his shirt to the dimples in his lower back.

The tips of his ears are fire-red, another reaction that Oikawa has never seen on his former teammate, and a second white-hot flash of annoyance spikes through Oikawa’s stomach, stronger than the first, his hackles rising and his mouth twisting sourly.

"It was on my way home," Ushijima answers humbly, although Oikawa swears his shoulders get just a little bit straighter even as he says it. "I did not have any other errands to run after work."

He seems to have completely forgotten that Oikawa is still in the kitchen, or either he doesn’t care, his eyes solely focused on Suga, who’s leaning against the back of one of Oikawa’s kitchen chairs, his sleeves pulled down so that they almost cover the entire lengths of his hands, the pale tips of his fingers just visible.

Iwaizumi’s speculation about Ushijima, about his feelings for Suga, seem to be spot on, a fact only cemented in truth when Ushijima rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, starts to say something along the lines of, "Futakuchi, I was wondering if-", and Oikawa’s had enough.

He sets his glass down with a little more force than necessary, the noise echoing through the space, swallows past the barbed words in his throat, and tries not to stalk when he walks across the kitchen to Suga’s side, his free arm winding automatically around the other’s slender waist and pulling him into his side.

_"So much for playing it cool,"_ a tiny voice says in the back of his head, but Oikawa doesn’t care.

Suga is only stiff for a second, most likely from being caught off guard, before he relaxes into Oikawa’s embrace, and just that, that tiny softening of Suga into him, of his weight leaning warm and steady against Oikawa, is more than enough to quell the jealousy that burns in his stomach like he’s swallowed hot coals.

It doesn’t hurt that Ushijima’s eyes are finally off of Suga and instead flicker down to Oikawa’s fingers firmly splayed across Suga’s side, keeping him in place and very, very close, curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, his thumb rubbing circles into Suga’s side through the material.

Oikawa raises his chin arrogantly, waits for Ushijima to meet his gaze, not really giving a fuck as to if he seems haughty or rude or aggressive, his eyes narrowed and dark with a flash of possessiveness that he can feel straight down to the tips of his fingers, down the ramrod-straight path of his spine, electricity in his blood.

_"Back off,"_ he says with his stance, with the burning intensity of his gaze, with the saccharine-sweet smile he lets curve his mouth up, teeth bared, when he asks, "Tea?"

Ushijima hesitates, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, some kind of conclusion dawning in slow smudges of color in his eyes, plum and mauve.

Oikawa holds his gaze, continues to stroke patterns against Suga’s waist, the other seemingly blissfully oblivious to the tension between the other two as he also waits for Ushijima to answer.

"I should get home," Ushijima finally responds, his voice flatter than usual, his eyes only flicking towards Suga briefly before they return to Oikawa’s face, unreadable and a little cold.

Oikawa hums at the answer, pleased and only feeling a little guilty about it.

But Suga makes a tiny noise of protest at his side, shakes his head and gestures outside.

"You came all this way in the rain to give us food and it’s still pouring outside. At least stay until the rain lets up a little bit."

He eyes Ushijima’s still very wet jeans and adds, "You don’t even have an umbrella."

"I have spare ones," Oikawa quips smartly before he can take the words back, flushing a little behind his ears when Suga tilts his head back to shoot him a sharp look.

Right.

They’re supposed to be getting Ushijima to stay, for whatever reason.

He takes a deep inward breath to calm himself, and then says, "Stay until the rain slows down. Futakuchi is right, it would be terribly rude of us to ask you to leave now."

He tries to keep his tone civil, tones down the lilt of sarcasm there at the end, somewhat satiated by the fact that he seems to have gotten his earlier message across, what with the way that Ushijima keeps unconsciously staring at Oikawa’s arm fit snugly around Suga.

Ushijima fidgets but then nods, and Oikawa gestures to the kitchen table.

He doesn’t let Suga go when the other tries to pull away and follow Ushijima to sit down.

"Oikawa," Suga hisses under his breath, peering up at him through narrowed, confused eyes and long eyelashes, his soft mouth turned down into a pout, and Oikawa really can’t help himself, really can’t resist ducking down and catching his lips with his own quickly, briefly, just a taste and away, a quick nip to Suga’s full lower lip that draws out a quiet hiccup of surprise, slipping his cool fingers just under the hem of Suga’s t-shirt at the same time and thumbing at the bare flesh stretched over the delicate curve of one hipbone.

He’s not doing it for Ushijima to see, although judging by the strangled choking sound and the abrupt scrape of chair legs across the floor from the other side of the kitchen, he must’ve caught some of it.

Oikawa wants to do it again right after so badly he’s halfway leaning back down when the blush erupts over Suga’s face, blooms of red that stain his pale cheeks like flowers, when he recovers from his shock and whacks Oikawa, hard, in the side, the dazed, almost sleepy, look in his eyes fading as fast as it had appeared.

"Ow," Oikawa half-whispers, half-whines, his brow furrowing, but Suga doesn’t show him any mercy, just avoids Oikawa’s eyes, in a manner that seems almost shy, and firmly disentangles himself, his face still bright crimson when he turns back to Ushijima.

Oikawa pouts and then reasons that he probably deserved that.

Ushijima is staring at Oikawa as if he’s sprouted three heads, and Oikawa lets himself grin outright as he turns to grab mugs and boil some water.

Suga’s voice cuts through the kitchen again, pulling Ushijima’s attention back down from the clouds of shock that float around his ears.

Oikawa fills his tea kettle with water, listens to Suga ask Ushijima about seemingly random things, where he lives, what he likes to do on his time off, if he enjoys his job.

He pays as close attention to the answers as Suga appears to be, the other boy’s elbows propped up on the kitchen table as Ushijima talks, something Oikawa’s never seen the cop do as often as he is now.

It’s like Suga is drawing the words out of him, coaxing him in just the right way to give more than one-sentence responses.

Ushijima is sitting with his back to Oikawa, Suga just visible over his shoulder, and every so often, Suga makes sure to catch Oikawa’s eye, as if he's asking him if he’s listening.

It slowly begins to dawn on Oikawa, his fingers fumbling with opening a tea bag, why Suga was so adamant about convincing Ushijima to stay, and once again Oikawa is reminded of how Suga seems to always be one step ahead of him in terms of figuring out the game they’re all playing.

Being a cop means that Ushijima has access to the hidden stories of the city, the ones that happen at two in the morning, the ones that are painted over with the whirling lights of cop cars, the ones that get swept under the rug, hidden under whispers and rumors, instead of broadcast on the nightly news.

If anything odd or unexplainable has happened in the city, Ushijima might be one of the people who knows about it.

If anyone is looking for Suga and the others and has contacted law enforcement, Ushijima could be one of the people looking for them.

Keeping him close, learning the information he knows, could simultaneously turn up a lead as to where Yahaba and Kenma are as well as protect them from discovery.

Suga’s questions are innocent enough to not raise any suspicions, but by the time Oikawa has finished making two cups of tea and Suga’s mug of warm milk, he’s heard nothing that seems to be of significant importance.

Oikawa sets their mugs down in front of them, turns to return to the stove to add the finishing touches to his own, and is just putting up the milk and spooning sugar into his cup when Ushijima asks his own question.

"How is your brother doing?" he asks Suga, who responds without a hitch, without batting an eyelash.

"He’s doing better. He’s sleeping but I’ll let him know you asked."

Ushijima hums into his tea, takes a sip and then another question is being slipped into the space between the two of them.

"Akaashi mentioned that you go to New York University with Oikawa. What are you majoring in?"

Suga hesitates this time, his eyes just barely flicking over to Oikawa before he answers.

"I’m still unsure," he says, self-consciously brushing his bangs back from his face.

There’s an awkward pause, Ushijima quiet for a moment and Oikawa frozen with his spoon poised above his tea.

"Aren’t you in the same grade as Oikawa?" Ushijima asks, confusion coloring his voice. "You two will be graduating this spring, correct?"

"He’s a sophomore, Ushiwaka," Oikawa interrupts quickly, praying that no one had ever mentioned grade levels before. He vaguely remembers telling Iwaizumi and Akaashi that Suga was a fellow classmate, but that could easily be covered up with the excuse of Suga taking advanced classes.

Suga shoots him a grateful look, and Ushijima only pauses for a moment longer before he nods.

Oikawa finishes stirring his tea, grabs his cup and makes to join them, thinking of a way to get Ushijima to leave soon because it’s too risky to have him stay and keep asking questions they might not have the answers to. Besides, the rain outside has slowed down, just barely drizzling against the windows.

He’s two steps back to the table when Ushijima’s voice rises again, yet another question falling into the rain-soaked air, fitting in with the hum of the refrigerator and the shadows against the walls.

"That bracelet that you wear, does it mean something?"

Suga stops, the edge of his teacup just barely brushing against his lips, his eyes lowered, and from here, Oikawa can see the flash of ink and gold around his pale wrist, can see where his sleeve has, at some point, slid down his arm where he had carefully kept it covered this entire time.

Oikawa is struck stationary, the sound of the rain pattering against the sides of his apartment suddenly much louder.

Even from here, Oikawa sees the words in his mind’s eye.

_Power to many, obedience for all._

"It’s just a silly thing I’ve had forever."

Suga’s voice is small, his teacup slowly lowered from his mouth, the fingers of his other hand moving in slow motion to pull his sleeve back down, to hide the words, carefully, cautiously, as if he’s waiting for Ushijima to suddenly pounce.

Oikawa’s mouth is dry, his eyes seeking out Suga’s when he looks up, eyelashes no longer shadowing his gaze, and there’s that shift again, the one he had seen in the hallway, that small tilt towards indescribable fear, a small eclipse against the brightness of the gold.

Within the space of one breath and the next, the air in the kitchen changes, suddenly feels charged, tense enough to cut yourself on.

Under the table, just in view from where Oikawa is still standing, Suga’s right hand dangles, his wrist now resting on his knee, and he suddenly jerks his fingers, just the barest motion, but sharp enough to catch Oikawa’s full attention.

"I noticed your brother had the same one," Ushijima says next, and Oikawa swears he sees Suga noticeably flinch, his eyes on Ushijima’s face, the color in his cheeks shifting agonizingly slowly towards paler, cooler shades.

Suga’s panicking, his facade of calm and laid back slowly slipping, and Oikawa is one step, two steps forward to intervene when it happens again, that subtle jerk of Suga’s fingers, hidden from Ushijima’s view but completely parallel to Oikawa’s line of sight.

It brings him to a stuttering halt. There’s something… familiar that wings through Oikawa’s head.

It’s a strange, eerie feeling, a wash of pale peach, of sea-salt on his tongue, of butterfly wing brushes across the sensitive skin of his forearm.

Oikawa’s fingers are wrapped so tightly around his mug, his knuckles have turned bone-white, stark and sharp, his skin stretched too taut, too thin.

Ushijima’s tone is unreadable, blank of meaning, and it’s impossible to detect anything that might be lingering under the questions, to uncover anything that might warn them that, somehow, Ushijima already knows something he shouldn’t.

But, oddly, what’s bothering Oikawa the most is that soft trace of Suga’s fingers through the air, the one he’s done twice now, the one that Oikawa had briefly suspected was possibly just Suga trying to get his attention.

It sticks in Oikawa’s throat and brings with it a wave of nostalgia, causes a strange ache in his head.

When it happens again, Oikawa is transfixed, nothing in his head but the movement of Suga’s fingertips, the rest of the kitchen fading away, every noise overcome with the distant roar of the sea in his ears, and this time it’s more than before.

Suga’s fingers move almost as if he’s writing, quick, minute strokes through the air that Oikawa tries to put shapes to. But it’s not Japanese or English or any other language that he might recognize.

They aren’t words he should recognize, but suddenly, frighteningly, there’s a voice in the back of his head that says he might, that he will if he tries to.

And suddenly, that feeling, of something Oikawa isn’t ready to see, isn’t ready to fall into, is rapidly rising, accompanied by terror, surges up Oikawa’s throat and threatens to drown him in saltwater.

Almost unconsciously he shakes his head.

_"No."_

No to what? No to not understanding what Suga is trying to tell him?

No to tell him to stop before they uncover something else that no one will have the answer to, something that threatens to tilt the entire world off of its axis, that threatens to turn _Oikawa’s_ world entirely upside down?

When Suga’s copper eyes flick back over to Oikawa, Suga does it again, those eight simple, elegant curves with a pause and then three more that he traces through the air with the tip of his index finger, his hand still hanging down by his side, as if he’s painting, as if he’s tracing out constellations, as if he’s printing out words across Oikawa’s skin, inking them into his veins, along the curves of his knuckles, breathing them into his ear.

In a breath, as Oikawa locks eyes with him, as he stares into those honey-gold eyes and then lets his gaze fall to the graceful length of Suga’s fingers, it all seems to click inside his head, a language he’s never known before, lines and curves, like the arc of a comet across the night sky, like the orbit of the moon, like the angles and positions of the stars above his head.

Except he must’ve known, at some point, he had to have known it before, because Suga is forming words in the space between them, silent and invisible to everyone but the two of them.

And Oikawa understands them.

It hits him with all of the force of a supernova.

He drops his mug. 

Lets it slip from slack fingers, the seconds before it shatters against the ground each lasting a lifetime, the shock in Suga’s eyes when he must see the understanding dawn on Oikawa’s face like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from both of them because Oikawa can see the disbelief on Suga’s face as much as he feels it on his own, vivid and bright for a split second.

The words Suga wrote flash before Oikawa’s eyes like the afterglow of light left from a click of his camera.

_Distract him._

The cup hits the ground.

Oikawa feels the sound of shattering in some dark, innermost part of his mind, an explosion, a symphony, the crash of sea waves onto the shore.

Suga is staring at him as if someone has died, as if someone has shot Oikawa right through the chest, the sound of the gunshot hidden by the breaking of his cup on the floor, as if bright red blood is spreading over the front of his t-shirt.

Oikawa can’t speak, can’t move, can only stare back, horrified.

How?

That’s the only word that makes any sense anymore, that Oikawa can see written across Suga’s forehead, that rests heavy and bitter on the tip of his tongue.

How does he know what that language is?

How was he able to read it so seamlessly, so easily, just from Suga tracing the words into the air?

How did Suga know he would understand?

Except… it seems like Suga hadn’t been expecting him to if the distraught look still on his face is any hint.

Oikawa feels sick all of the sudden, every single, calming moment that he’s been able to hold in his hands since he woke up earlier this evening slipping from his fingers, his arms hanging limp at his sides.

It isn't until Ushijima’s face is suddenly in front of him that he snaps out of it.

"Are you okay?" he asks Oikawa, his brow furrowed in confusion, with concern, and Oikawa glances down, realizes that the tea has spread over the floor, that he’s standing in it and amongst broken pieces of porcelain in bare feet.

He barely even feels the heat against his skin.

Oikawa swallows down the knot in his throat, blinks rapidly, musters up the effort to say, "Yeah, fine. I just burned myself a little."

Ushijima disappears from his side and returns a beat later with one of the towels he had used to dry off with.

He hesitates in front of Oikawa, who still hasn’t moved, and then gingerly places both hands on Oikawa’s shoulders to urge him backwards, his touch delicate and fleeting, leaving once Oikawa is away from the mess, as if he’s afraid to touch him for any longer than necessary.

Oikawa keeps his gaze on the floor as Ushijima swipes up the mess, discarding the broken pieces into the trash can and mopping up the tea, his mind numb, his heart racing.

He doesn’t want to see Suga’s face, doesn’t want to see that horrible horrified expression again, doesn’t want to know what it means, what it implies that he knew, somewhere deep inside him, what Suga was doing, as if a door that had previously been locked had opened up inside his mind.

He can feel the burning weight of Suga’s gaze still on his downturned face.

"Um," Ushijima says once he’s finished, obviously bewildered by the reactions of the other two people in the room. "I should leave. I have work early in the morning and I am sure you both would like to sleep."

Suga seems to snap out of his daze finally, the sound of a chair being pushed back reaching Oikawa’s ears.

"I’ll grab you an umbrella to use on your way home," Suga says, but his voice is shaky, almost like he’s close to tears.

His footsteps move across the kitchen, until Oikawa can see the pattern of his socks resting next to Ushijima’s.

"Here, I’ll take that," Suga says, voice still teetering, one hand reaching for the towel, and Ushijima gives it to him.

Oikawa does let his gaze flick up for a second then, relieved that Suga is looking up at Ushijima instead of him, his gaze flittering over to Ushijima’s face next.

He’s looking down at Suga, uncertainty still clear as day on his face, but something shifts just slightly, a different expression flashing just barely through his eyes.

Oikawa doesn’t have the energy to categorize it, isn’t even sure if it had been there at all because it’s gone in an instant, and Suga is turning to put the tea-drenched towel in the sink before he heads for the front door.

Oikawa looks back down quickly when honey eyes just briefly land on his face before Suga disappears around the corner.

"Oikawa-," Ushijima starts after a moment, but Oikawa forces himself to raise his head, to interrupt him with what feels like a broken smile, and say, "Thanks for bringing the food over, Ushiwaka. But you’re right, it’s late."

Ushijima hesitates a moment longer, staring down at Oikawa as if he’s going to say something, and then murmurs, "Thank you for the tea,", before his footsteps follow Suga’s.

Oikawa stays where he is, staring down at the pattern of his hardwood floor, at the faint, damp streaks that arch across it from where Ushijima had cleaned.

Muffled murmuring floats in from the living room, words Oikawa can’t, and doesn’t try to, make out reaching his ears.

He’s stuck in place, can’t even begin to try to understand what just happened, doesn’t _want_ to.

The front door opens and then clicks shut.

The apartment falls completely silent.

Oikawa tears his gaze from the floor, waits.

It feels like a lifetime starts and passes before silver hair and pale hands come back into view.

Suga appears around the corner slowly, walking with small, weak steps, his face completely open when he meets Oikawa’s eyes.

Oikawa swallows.

"Koushi," he says, his voice jarring in the quiet, the name rasping up his throat.

"Tooru."

Suga’s voice is shaking as much as Oikawa’s hands.

"Koushi," he says again, his voice desperate to his own ears. "Koushi, what the fuck-"

Suga shakes his head furiously, tears beginning to pool in the corners of his eyes.

He seems so far away, standing across the kitchen.

"I don’t know-," he half-whispers, his voice breaking, still shaking his head, a tear slipping and running down his cheek. "I don’t remember."

Oikawa’s heart feels like it’s shattering in his chest, just like the shattering of his cup against the floor, his own eyes burning, his knees suddenly threatening to give out.

"Tooru, I don’t know- I can’t _remember_."

Suga’s voice borders on despair, rising, a second tear following the first, his hands fisted into his sleeves, his arms crossed over his stomach, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Oikawa’s lower lip wobbles, and he bites down on it hard enough to register pain, hard enough to taste copper.

And then he does the only thing he can think to do.

Raising trembling fingers, Oikawa traces six simple lines through the air, six lines he shouldn’t know, that he doesn’t remember learning even though they stand out in his mind’s eye in stark black, whispering to him, and he watches Suga’s eyes widen dramatically, his mouth parting on a sharp inhale as he follows the slow movement of Oikawa’s index finger through the air, watching its path carefully, more tears following the first two, knows without a single ounce of doubt that he understands them.

Oikawa stands in his kitchen and stares at Suga and tries not to think about what this means.

He stands there and lets the letters he had traced convert themselves into Japanese in his head, rearranging from the strange lines he somehow has no memory of but can understand, and feels his heart beat impossibly hard against his ribcage.

He stands there and wonders numbly if maybe Suga and the others aren’t the only ones who have lost memories.

The rain continues to fall down all around them, washing away everything else except for the six letters Oikawa wrote.

_Koushi._


End file.
